


Love Song and a Motorcycle

by tweeksqueak



Category: South Park
Genre: Bastardized Buddhism, Established Relationship, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Motorcycles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-03-30 23:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19038010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweeksqueak/pseuds/tweeksqueak
Summary: Everything seems to be falling apart around Tweek this summer. And then Craig went and bought a motorcycle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written because I kept stumbling upon all this inspiring literature—it will pop up in the story. The whole thing is already finished, and I aim to update as often as I'm able.  
> Special thanks to Ace for the invaluable help and support offered as I wrote this. Thank you so much! Check them out on Tumblr: jimvalmers  
> And shout-out to my mom who answered all my weirdly specific questions about motorcycles and now thinks I want one myself. How do I explain that no, I was just trying to write a fanfic?

_Yet, while his clogs fly across the face of the earth like the eight swift stallions of Emperor Mu Wang of the Chou, my bicycle has not described an arc even a yard wide. To close the gap between us, I needed to extemporize and, in my limited way, I conceived a plan of action. It was extremely simple: deep breathing exercises in the morning.  —_ “Moon Gems” by Ishikawa Jun

 

“It's a Honda NC700X” Craigs says, as if the words should be anything more than gibberish to Tweek.

The motorcycle is beetle-black, polished to a shine but a little scuffed along the edges. Bought used. It stands, leaning cockily on the kickstand, in the middle of the Tuckers' driveway. Like a piece of extraterrestrial equipment Craig’s brought home. Truthfully it looks like death on two wheels. Tweek can envision the wreckage it will become when it inevitably crashes into a tree or a car or a guard rail. Sparks and lightning, its metal innards spilling everywhere, bleeding oil and gasoline and causing a blazing fire.

Craig looks so happy about it. He is giving Tweek a rare, hopeful look, like he wants Tweek to be happy about the monstrosity too.

“Um…” Tweek tries, “it’s pretty?”

“Isn’t it?” Craig says.

He pats the fairing of it like a dog—fondly,  _good boy_. Tweek can’t help the noise of upset he makes. The whole thing feels like a joke. Surely Craig did not invest years of his time and money into  _this?_

Tweek has to force himself to be supportive. He knew Craig was planning this, had been looking forward to it for a long time. But when he first started talking about it years ago it had felt distant, like a naive dream Craig spoke of, like being an astronaut or a race car driver. Even as he spent summer holidays working, when he showed Tweek his savings at the bank, declined afternoon dates to take lessons in driving, Tweek had dismissed it, repressed it, thinking he will never do it. Never make enough money, never care enough to take the tests. It will pass, it will pass…

And now the cycle stands here, unreal in its realness. Tweek underestimated Craig.

He should have seen it coming, talked him out of it sooner. Yes, thank you Captain Hindsight—of course he should have. But now it’s too late.

“She’s a sport-touring type, sort of,” Craig says when Tweek remains silent. “So she can go fast but we can also take her on hikes. There’s a lot of storage capacity, see?”

He shows Tweek the trunk, which is just in front of the seat. It could fit a severed head—or a biker’s helmet. His thoughts are turning morbid.

“Hike?”

“Yeah, we could drive to Denver whenever we want. Or up the mountains. As long as we stick to asphalt it should be fine.”

“We?”

“Hm? What do you mean?” Craig motions to the rear end of the cycle. “You’ll sit here.”

 _“Arghhh!_ Hang on now!” Tweek cries. He’s grabbing at his hair, frantically tugging at fistfulls, feeling the strands pop out one after another. “It’s one thing if you want to throw yourself into traffic but I’m not suicidal man, no way!”

“I drive you in the car all the time, babe. What’s the matter?”

 _“‘Travelling a mile on a motorcycle carries a much higher risk of death or injury than driving the same distance in a car.’”_  Tweek has the Wikipedia article memorized. “You’re not getting me to climb on that!”

Craig tsks. “I wasn’t planning on driving off with you  _today,_ ” he says. “I need to get comfortable with the cycle first, and then we’ll practice on empty roads. Come up with hand signals and shit. Don’t worry about it, I’ve thought this through.”

Tweek does worry about it. The worry manifests in great shudders wrecking through him, like the death-spasms his body will make when he meets his end in a roadside accident.

Craig must notice him descending into panic. Gently he covers Tweek’s hands with his own, pushing them flat onto Tweek’s scalp, stopping him from pulling out any more of his hair.

“Don’t hurt yourself, dear,” he says, tone going mild and kind. “It’s going to be fine, okay? There’s no rush. You can be brave.”

Tweek shrugs him off, taking a step back.

 _“Nggh_ — Why do  _I_ have to be brave? Why can’t  _you_ be sensible? You didn’t think of me at all when you planned this! You knew I wouldn’t like it, and you did it anyway.”

Immediately the softness leaves Craig’s face. “Maybe it’s not all about you,” he says. “Maybe I can have interests and hobbies regardless of what you think of them.”

“So why are you trying to involve me!”

What open excitement Craig had shown a few minutes ago has morphed into a closed off, dull expression. Tweek’s emotions are slipping too, but in the opposite direction—towards feelings beyond his control. Frustration and anger, fear and sadness. This isn’t what he expected when Craig called him earlier, bubbly with passion, telling him to come over “right now” because he had something amazing to show him.

“I thought you’d like it if we hung out more,” Craig says. “Did new things together like a couple, you know.”

“What was wrong with how we hung out in the past? It’s you who are always too busy to see me because you’ve been working towards… towards this!”

“I don’t want to hole up in your stupid store all the time! I need something of my own.” He’s not quite yelling, but the effect is the same.

Tweek falters.

He always thought of the coffee shop as their sanctum. Somber as it was these days, they were allowed to be alone together, free to lounge and laze as they pleased. To learn that Craig hasn’t enjoyed this as much as him hurts. Tweek’s being pulled at two different ways: on one hand he wants Craig to have something which inspires him, wants him to share all of this enthusiasm with Tweek; on the other hand Tweek wishes it wasn’t  _this particular thing_.

“So go take a ride then!” he yells back, unable to stop himself. “But I want no part of it!”

“Fine.”

They stand for a moment, gritting teeth, staring each other down. Their only witness is the motorcycle, parked right there and ignorant to what’s happening around it. What it has caused. It’s only a machine, but Tweek wouldn't call it innocent.

It hits Tweek that this is Craig’s house, that it would be dumb of him to wait for Craig to leave. He swallows his stubbornness—the whole, disgusting mouthful.

“I gotta go. I have to work at my ‘stupid store’,” he says, not bothering to separate the bitterness from his voice. “I’ll see you later.”

He turns, and leaves. But already he regrets his end of the conversation. How inconsiderable he’s being. His inability to get over himself, to see past his own fear,  _you coward, you baby._

Behind him, Craig grumbles out a goodbye.

## \--

For as long as Tweek can remember Tweek Bros. has had the same old, lively jazz playing from the same old speakers up in the far corners of the room. When the tables have been wiped down, the machines polished and the floor swiped clean there isn’t much for Tweek to do but to tap along with the swinging notes of the piano, fingers drumming on the countertop to the set of ten or so songs playing on repeat often enough that he’s learnt them by ear and could—probably—recite them on his keyboard at home if he actually cared at all for jazz.

Since his shift began more than two hours ago he’s served an espresso to a stressed-out looking mother with a toddler in a stroller, a regular cup of black coffee to some surly man in a threadbare jacket and nothing to no one else. So about the same as always, except these days there’s nothing else to fall back upon, no secondary sources of income.

Here’s something Tweek learnt around the time he entered high school: all those haggard men and women who came by asking for the  _“Tweeker’s Special_   _Blend”_  were, in fact, not asking for Richard Tweak’s sewage water brew but the little baggies of fine crystals kept deep within the dusty and cobwebbed corners of the storage room, the ones Tweek’s dad always said contained flake salt.

It doesn’t matter if your coffee is like the dregs at the bottom of a rusty bucket if your target market can’t differentiate between the taste of an apple and an orange. It was never the coffee they came for anyway. For all Tweek knows they brought the takeaway cup with them a few blocks to keep up appearances and then dumped the lot of it in a trench somewhere, probably poisoning some poor frogs and contributing to climate change by littering.

It  _does_ matter if your coffee is undrinkable when it is all you have now, because your town’s incompetent one-man police force was finally replaced by an actual police department, causing all the meth lab cooks to evacuate like dogs before a natural disaster, taking with them all of your “local” ingredients and leaving nothing to sell your regulars on which your entire, shrewd business relies.

They—the methheads that is—have been stalking around the peripherals of the coffeehouse, zombie-like in both appearance and act. It’s putting Tweek on edge. He does feel a small stirring of sympathy for them, along with a touch of aversion towards his father. How different would their lives have been were it not for Richard Tweak enabling them for years? Now Tweek is the one who has to deal with the karmic repercussions of his father’s misdeeds. It’s unfair.

At the chime of the bell Tweek lets out a cry of terror, snapping to attention as if shot out by a spring, ready for fight or flight. But it’s not a methhead angrily demanding their fix but Wendy, dolled up in a purple sundress and red lipstick.

She hurries to the counter, apologetic. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you!”

Tweek shakes his head, though the action is likely lost in the way his whole body is still trembling, so he says, “It’s alright!” Pulling his loose threads together he remembers she’s a customer, one he realistically can’t afford to lose. “Gah! What can I get you?”

She contemplates the chalkboard on which Tweek has written out their meager menu in swirly calligraphy that is far too fancy for their establishment.  _Espresso. Americano. Cappuccino. Caffé latte, Caffé mocha_ and  _Vanilla latte. Tweeker’s Special Blend_ , crossed out.

She hums. “Maybe something sweet?”

“Um, I could make you a vanilla latte if you’d like?”

“Wonderful!” she agrees.

Happy to finally have something to do Tweek gets to work, measuring beans for the burr grinder with practiced carelessness before loading the grounds into the espresso machine and pulling a shot. The machine is a vintage hunk-of-junk, rusted and eroded to all hell. It sounds about as bad as it looks, spluttering and occasionally wailing as if crying for someone to put it out of its misery. It’s Richard Tweak’s pride and joy; a historical artifact unmoved and unchanged since Grandpa Tweak first opened the store in 1968. Tweek wants to smash it against the floor.

It’s not that he doesn’t value the past, but the thing is  _broken;_  sentimentality won’t save it.

Over his shoulder he asks, “I never see you here, what’s up?”

“I’m just passing some time. You know, before…” Wendy trails off, cryptically. “Didn’t Token tell you?”

“Tell me what? What’s going on! Ahhh!” He fumbles the milk frother, burning his hand with a splash of spilt milk.

“Tweek, it’s okay! We’re going on a date. I guess he didn’t tell anyone yet. That’s actually really nice of him…”

“Oh! Sorry!” So no one is coming to kidnap anyone, then. Good.

He adds the vanilla syrup to the espresso in a cup, pouring the milk on top, finishing it up with a quick leaf design.

“Ggh— Is this your first date together?”

“It’s our third! The first one was, um, two weeks ago? We’ve both been kind of busy. But it’s been nice. We text a lot.” She pauses for a moment. “I’m sorry, you probably don’t want to hear all about it from me.”

“No, no, it’s okay!” he says, trying to assure her. “Just— I thought you were still with Stan? And that’ll be five, please.”

She pays for her drink and takes a delicate sip. The face she makes is telling, and he shrugs at her in apology. That’s just how the coffee here turns out. Not much he can do.

“This is, ah, great. Thank you!” She puts the drink down on the counter. “We broke up a month ago. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it though. It’s always such an event, me and him, and I’m tired of it! It’s like— Um, can I tell you something?”

The heart palpitations are back. Who is sick? he wonders. Dying? Did Stan hurt Wendy? Is Wendy going to confess that she’s been planning a homicide, possibly by poison, in revenge of Stan hurting her? Is Token in on it? Is she going to ask Tweek to be their accomplice? He should turn them in to the police, but he would probably feel compelled not to, if her life was actually in danger. Where would he hide the evidence though? Bleach and fire only goes so far—he’s seen _CSI_. Oh, the pressure!

“Ahh! Sure!” It comes out as a yell.

“For the longest time I thought he was The One. I mean, we’d been together since elementary school! Never mind that it’s been on and off. But, with that much history together, and…” She takes a breath, stalling to find the words. “Look at you and Craig, you’re so happy, and you’ve been together for almost as long! I guess I wanted that perfect, ‘he’s-my-soulmate’ relationship too. I’ve been clinging to him—to Stan—all this time, fooling myself into thinking it was worth it, that it was meant to be. That it’s normal for all couples to have this many bumps in the road. But I think I was just scared. Scared of change. Who am I without him? I feel so pathetic about it now, of course.”

“You’re not pathetic, Wendy…” Tweek says. He tries to sound warm, but inside he is icy. Him and Craig, she said, are happy. Are they? Or have they drifted apart, slowly, so slow Tweek hadn’t noticed? Are they clinging to one another by habit, terrified like little monkeys, like Wendy and Stan? Tweek struggles to think of something to say to her, but in his mind he can’t not make it all about himself.

At last he settles on, “You’re brave for trying something new.”

She rolls the ends of her silky hair between two neatly manicured fingers. She’s beautiful, and it’s no wonder she could find someone as quickly as two weeks into a breakup.

“Thank you, Tweek,” she says. “I hope I things go well! You might see me more often now. Wouldn’t that be fun? I always wanted us to be friends.”

“You don’t need to date Token for that!” Though really, it seems weird to randomly hang out with a girl. But if he were to do it, he’d prefer it to be Wendy over anyone else. “You should text me about how the date goes, later.”

“I will!” she promises. “I’m sorry for talking so much about me! How are things here?”

“Gaah! Don’t even get me started!” His head snaps painfully, and with an audible crack, to the side. “It’s awful! I don’t think we’ll be here in a year… and then what! I’ll die on the streets!”

He slumps, dejected and out of steam, onto the countertop.

She studies the store, all the vacant seats and tables, frowning. “I thought it was looking a little empty. Is it really that bad?”

“Worse than bad! You’re my third customer—in three hours!”

Her hand finds Tweek’s, squeezing it reassuringly, and he startles, letting out a quiet “eep”.

“You’re not going to end up homeless Tweek, I promise. It’ll work itself out! Tweek Bros. has been in South Park for generations!” She smiles at him. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go now. We’re meeting up in five minutes… wish me luck!”

She pats his hand, apologetic. He tells her a quiet “bye, have fun” and she takes her coffee and goes, waving to him at the door.

He wishes he could believe her, that things will turn out fine. But he can’t foresee their luck turning, can’t imagine the universe rewarding them anything. Not unless drastic changes are made—and knowing his father, there won’t be any.

The bell chimes to mark her exit.

## \--

“You have to lean with me in the curves.” Craig’s voice comes out muffled by his helmet. “If we’re turning right you can’t counterlean to the left or we’re going to topple. So just hold on to me tightly and follow my movements, alright? You okay?”

Tweek’s nods, though really he’s about to piss his pants. The desire to hide his face in the collar of Craig’s jacket is strong, but not as strong as the need to keep his eyes wide open in case a pedestrian, a car or a rogue cow steps across their path. Common sense has so far won out; Tweek’s barely blinked since he first mounted the cycle.

“You ready?”

Tweek whines, unhappily. “Uh-huh!”

They slowly take off down the road again. Out here, along the periphery of town, they’re alone but for the cattle grazing in the meadows. Wobbly fence posts are right up against the roadside, lined with Aspen saplings. Their small, trembling leaves rattle in the wind. Summers in South Park are beautiful. Towards the end of spring, when it begins to get warm for real, the townspeople emerge from hibernation, having spent almost three quarters of the year huddled indoors.

And yet it is more than the warmth. It’s seeing  _colors,_ after all that white snow, endless evergreen pines and the muddy, grey roads. In summer the rainbow can be found in the wildflowers of a single ditch. Green comes in a hundred different hues, in true green or pulling towards yellow or blue. In a rural area like this the transformation of flora and fauna is so much more apparent than in the city. In the city you will never accidentally stumble a foot into a rabbit’s den, or fall into a creek because the weeds grew so high you couldn’t see it; you will never see your habitat change so drastically, two seasons as different as two separate villages.

The scents of the pasture have made their way through the ventilation of Tweek’s helmet. Livestock and manure, yes—but also grass, flowers, some far off barbecue.

Yet more powerful is the smell of the motorcycle itself. These days a miasma of exhaust and oil stick to Craig wherever he goes, and now Tweek has an empirical understanding of why.

After their row Craig had been supportive, understanding. He didn’t pressure Tweek to ride with him again—in fact he hardly mentioned the motorcycle at all. And Tweek was relieved, until he wasn’t. After days on his own in the coffeehouse the lonesomeness quickly caught up to him. As he stared at the clock, playing along with a jazz melody on his invisible piano, he thought about Craig driving too fast down the streets, cornering so tightly his knees brush the asphalt, Evel Knieveling over a procession of cars. If— _when_ —something inevitably happened, when he fell and broke every fragile bone in his body, where would Tweek be? Stuck behind the counter trying to fend off the ever-present methheads gathering like trolls around his store, unknowing of his boyfriend’s misfortune because he was too much of a coward to be there with him.

No, it wouldn’t do.

And so he tucked his tail between his legs and asked, very hesitantly, if Craig would still like to have him as a passenger. The expression of joy that had come over Craig’s face almost made Tweek forget what he had agreed to.

He’d been relieved to find that Craig was not on the path to becoming some kind of stuntman but was driving rather calmly. He is still somewhat of a beginner, it soon became apparent, but Tweek feels safe enough with his handling of the bike.

Most of the time, at least.

First and second gear, down a straight path, is fine. But today they’re going fast enough that Tweek feels the wind starting to resist them. The road is paved but poorly so. Each bump has Tweek’s insides clenching painfully, making him fear the coffee he had for breakfast coming back up. He’s got his arms around Craig’s midsection, clamping down like a vise. Craig is gracious enough not to say anything about it unless Tweek is seriously restricting his movements. When he is, Craig pats him once on the thigh, and Tweek will reluctantly ease up.

Gritting his teeth, Tweek keeps silent. During their first, tentative drives together he whimpered and wailed like that one time when Craig convinced him that riding the “Death-Drop Insane Roller Coaster Extreme” would be the most fun ever. Neither, it turns out, is fun. The difference, however, is that unlike roller coaster disasters—which are horrid but heavily dramatized and exaggerated by popular media for unknown yet undoubtedly sinister, secret purposes—the statistical probability for a motorcycle related accident is much higher and so for once his anxieties are totally justified.

Craig has a hatful of logical counters to this whenever Tweek brings it up. He always does. These roads are empty, we’re going slow, you can’t go your whole life fearing everything because at that point you could just as well just stay indoors forever, and _don’t you trust me?_

It’s the last one that gets him. He does! Or, he wants to. Craig can drive with as much care and caution as he possesses—in the end it’s not up to him whether a drunkard or psychopath runs them over or not.

On and on like this Tweek’s head spins as they rush together though the outskirts of town. He had once described to Craig his fears as a hydra, which spurts two new, grotesque heads for every one you cut off with your sword forged with rationally constructed arguments. Craig had looked at him funny, amused by how overly dramatic he was being. But Tweek was trying to be truthful. Craig’s been real knightly all these years, fighting this endless, futile battle. It’s not going to be amusing to him forever. No doubt he will tire, give up, label Tweek an unworthwhile case and move on.

Tweek better man up soon and prove him wrong. That’s why he is here.

They turn—hardly leaning much at all, thankfully—back towards the more populous residential streets. Craig pats him twice on the leg—a question—and though Tweek is loath to use his hands for anything but holding on he gives a shaky thumbs up—the answer. He’s not about to fall off nor is he in danger of shitting himself yet so all is good, basically. They pass the homes of the Marshes, the Broflovskis, the Stotches. There are families out in the yards, soaking up the abundant sunlight. A couple is walking down the sidewalk, holding hands.

Tweek slaps Craig’s arm, perhaps a tad harshly, and points at the couple. Craig slows down.

As the cycle crawls up behind Wendy and Token they turn and spot them too. Wendy waves at them, bright and eye-catching in a yellow top and cornflower-blue skirt. Token looks more moderate in a grey shirt though of course it’s handsomely fitted to his silhouette, as all of his clothes are.

“Hi you guys!” Wendy calls as they come to a stop next to them.

When Tweek dismounts his legs are jelly-like, but before he falls over she is hugging him tightly.

“Hi, Wends,” he says. His helmet is awkwardly in the way of hugging her back properly.

Craig is removing his own helmet and shaking out his hair. “‘Sup guys,“ he says, smooth and cool. Trying a little hard.

“Hi,” Token says. He nods towards the motorcycle. “That thing’s so neat, dude.”

Craig preens. “Heh. Yeah.”

“It seems like you’re having so much fun!” Wendy says.

“Token doesn’t take you on joyrides in his Cadillac?” Craig asks. “Dump him.”

“Well,” she starts, “I think it’s hard to justify the environmental impact of aimless driving, so no, not really. We went to the movies though—again.”

Craig roll his eyes. Trying to be diplomatic, Tweek asks what they watched.

 _“Transformers_ ,” Token says.

“You didn’t invite us?” Craig complains. “How was it?”

 _“Awful_ _!”_ Wendy and Token say, in chorus.

Tweek snorts. They make a cute couple, the two of them. Like people you’d see interviewed in an magazine, telling about their life and their wonderful, designer apartment. Good looking, good samaritans. Since Tweek offhandedly asked him a few days ago Token’s spoken at length about her, all the things they have in common, their interests and their aspirations. Token’s obviously excited to be with her, and Tweek suspects he never really got over dating her in third grade. Wendy seems happy too. Breaking it off with Stan for good was clearly the right choice—she seems radiant, or maybe just less stuck-up and irritated. It’s sad to think she could’ve been trapped in a stale relationship forever when she’s obviously so much happier now.

Drawing this thought, and its implications, to its full conclusions is— Well. For now, his mind side-steps the issue, like it’s some particularly nasty glob of goo on the floor.

“Anyway,” Token says, “Clyde’s tomorrow—pizza night. You’ll come, right?”

Tweek looks to Craig, who nods, for confirmation. “Of course! Are you coming too, Wendy?”

“If you’d like me to! I’d love to hang out with you all.” She smiles at Token. “Getting to know the people who are important to your significant other matters a lot to me. Trying to keep your SO and your friends separate is a little archaic, isn’t it?”

Tweek senses that this is indirectly referring to Stan and his group of friends. From past experience Tweek can say Wendy was probably better off not associating with them; they tend to attract more crazy than a clown show.

“Sure,” Craig says, though it doesn’t sound like it’s meant to answer her statement. “See you tomorrow then. At like five or something, right?”

Token gives a thumbs up. “See you then.”

With that Craig mounts the motorcycle again. Tweek settles back on the pillion, belly to Craig’s back. A few proud roars and the cycle jerks into movement. Tweek dares a small wave goodbye, but the surge of acceleration has him quickly clamping down on Craig again, terrified of ending up a gory smear on the pavement.

Thinking about tomorrow distract a little bit from the fear. How long will they stay? What should they bring for food? How will Wendy fit into their group? Her and Craig have never seemed to get along. Tweek would like it if they did. To have just one day where everything is nice and unconcerning. One day without feeling insecure about the coffee shop, the motorcycle, his relationship.

Tweek doesn’t know where him and Craig are standing right now. Sometimes he thinks he must’ve been an extraordinary person in his past life to in his current be awarded with Craig, who was just sort of handed to him, no effort required. Other times it hits him how often they bicker and fight. Their history has been spoiled by countless disagreements—indeed their first real interaction was a fistfight, staged or not. The blood and bruises were real, as was the milk tooth Tweek lost. They’re no longer punching each other of course but some of the words said have cut even deeper.

As children their fights were petty and overblown, but at the root they were the same as today. Craig doesn’t pay enough attention. Tweek demands too much attention. It’s always the other’s fault. In the aftermath of a fight Tweek doesn’t know which is true, with whom the fault lies, but in the heat of the moment he will always give Craig hell.

They hit a pothole and the motorcycle bounces. Tweek can’t hold in his scream, squeezing Craig tighter, heart slamming. He feels Craig’s stomach quivering in a chuckle.

This motorcycle is a good, concrete example of the more abstract problems they’re having: the only reason Tweek is here, on this hazardous machine, is because he is that desperate to be with Craig; meanwhile Craig would be happy enough to zip-zap around town on his own regardless of how it makes Tweek feel.

Will they do this forever? he wonders. The same core issue manifest through a myriad different of things and happenings, ups and downs as predictable as the comings of the seasons?

A car blows by, and takes his thoughts with it. He shoves his face against Craig’s back, helmet in the way. Keep breathing, he reminds himself. You will be fine, it’s okay, you can do it…

He’s looking forward to tomorrow—assuming they make it through today alive.

## \--

Right as they step around the corner where the convenience store comes into view a hand clamps over Tweek’s mouth, pulling him behind a dense bush.

He tries to scream, but only a muffled  _“Mhhph!”_  comes out.

Craig shushes him. “It’s Stan and the asshole brigade,” he whispers by Tweek’s ear. ”Ugh, I can’t stand those guys.”

It takes a moment for Tweek to orient himself. His heartbeat is going at a record breaking one million a minute, it feels like, pounding so loudly he can hardly hear his own thoughts. Now that he knows he’s not being abducted by human traffickers he submits to Craig’s hold, letting him support his dead weight as he waits for his pulse to slow and his breath to even out. He peers through the branches.

Indeed, there are their four most notorious schoolmates within the store windows, perusing the chips aisle. Last time Tweek saw them they were spearheading a movement against Rockstar Games for banning modding in single player  _GTA V_. Their efforts made it to the front page of Reddit as well as several notable gaming periodicals, all of which Craig had sent him angered screen captures of. Tweek tries to stay clear of their bullshit lest he ends up in the Mojave desert or something equally absurd.

It takes a few minutes before they finally see Cartman walk out of the store, arms weighed down soda and Cheesy Poofs. Behind him walks Kyle, provoked and upset about something or other but most likely Cartman; followed by Stan, by the looks of it doing his best to dispel the tension with a placating hand on Kyle’s shoulder; and lastly Kenny trails behind them all, empty handed. The scene is so classic any local could convincingly fill in their dialogue.

When they disappear from view Craig lets go of Tweek, who misses the contact immediately.

They buy their stuff at the store: mozzarella and black olives for the pizza, two bottles of Coke and a takeaway cup of coffee—sorry, Mom and Dad, but he is having an urgent craving. The grocery run ends up taking them longer than expected. When they ring the Donovans’ doorbell it’s already half past five.

“There you are!” Clyde pulls them both over the threshold by the arms. “What took you guys so long?”

From the living room Jimmy taunts, “Well, obviously they were b-b-banging and forgot about the rest of us!”

“Aaah! No! We weren’t!” Tweek cries, mortified by the suggestion. “We got stuck outside the store trying to avoid Cartman!”

He can hear the others snickering and he peers, hot-cheeked, around the doorframe. Jimmy is seated on the recliner, crutches propped against the armrest. Token and Wendy have beat them here too, sitting together snug and intimate on the couch, still looking like they’re in the honeymoon phase. Wendy smiles and waves at Tweek, bright and warm as always. He’s not sure why she has suddenly decided to be friendly with him. A part of him is on high alert—you can never be too cautious! She might be a doppelganger, sent on a mission to befriend Tweek only to ultimately undercut him at the most crucial moment. The lack of a probable motive is what calms him down. Plus, Wendy was always a genuine girl and more compassionate than most others in town. He’s inclined to trust her.

Clyde claps him on the back as he shoulders by into the living room. “Sure, Tweek. You don’t have to hide it!”

“It’s true! Auugh!”

Clyde tsks in doubt, but Craig cuts in to rescue them both from the humiliation before he can say anything else.

“It is,” he says. “The fuckers were taking their sweet time fondling their balls or whatever they were doing in there. I can’t wait for graduation when they get the hell out of town. How likely do you think it is they all leave for college somewhere far, far away?”

“Well, Kyle is looking at a law school in New York…” Wendy says. “I think Stan’s going to study in Denver? I don’t want to even think about what Cartman’s doing. And I hope for Kenny’s sake he’ll go to college too but let's be real, how likely do you think that is?”

Not very, Clyde speculates, which Jimmy disagrees on.

Tweek smooths out his shirt; frantic tugging has gotten it unbuttoned. With Clyde on the second armchair Craig takes the last empty seat on the couch. Tweek squeezes in besides him, almost on his lap. Craig throws an arm around his back. He’s heated, a pleasant sun warmed stone, and Tweek feels much like a cat basking in its toastiness. He leans a cheek against Craig’s delicate collarbone, and feels him place a dry, quiet kiss to the crown of his hair.

“You’re like my cardboard box,” Tweek murmurs, thinking of cats and where they prefer to lie.

“Sure, honey,” Craig says.

The others have not come to an agreement regarding the future plans of their classmates.

Wendy turns to Craig and Tweek. “Why are you asking, Craig? Are you not going to college?”

“Craig’s already got a contractor job at the same painting firm where his dad works,” Token explains to her. He curls a strand of her hair around a finger. It’s a casual motion, but simultaneously all lovey-dovey. Tweek wonders if him and Craig look so wholly enamored in each other’s presence too. Probably, because they’ve been idolized since  _before_ they were actually dating. Something must’ve been wrong—or right—in the way there were looking at each other.

“It’s an apprenticeship,” Craig corrects. “But, yeah. I’m not putting myself in debt for some low paying job I’ll hate anyway, fuck that.”

“What about you Tweek?” Wendy asks. “Have you been looking at universities?”

“Gnnh! No! School is just— Just way too much for me!”

He feels Craig rubbing at his side, willing him to settle down. It’s just that graduation is literally the last thing Tweek wants to think or talk about. It’s a box of uncertainties and decisions he’s been keeping tightly sealed at the outer margins of his mind for well over a year now. Each month he can feel it bulging, filling up, wanting to burst. Soon something will have to give but today is not the day, he hopes.

Thankfully Clyde shares his mindset.

“I agree with Tweek. Less talk about school and more about pizza and  _Plants vs Zombies_ , please? This is my home, and I forbid there be any further mention of boring stuff!” With that firmly decided upon Clyde wiggles the Xbox back to life. “Who shall have the honor of competing first?” he asks. Pauses, then adds, “Someone should probably go get the snacks too.”

“I’m sorry fellas, but I will not be getting up anytime soon. It seems I’ve no control over my— over— over my—. It seems I can’t walk.”

“I’ll get it,” Token says. He shuffles past everyone on the couch.

Tweek is grateful to be leaving the topic before it turns into a train wreck. Everyone has turned their attention to the TV as Clyde tries to set up the split-screen, struggling to make the controllers respond. Craig is berating him for not having charged the batteries.

“I’ll take the first round,” Tweek says.

Later, after his and Jimmy’s plants have been thoroughly stomped by whatever randoms they’ve matched with, and they have handed off the controls to Craig and Clyde who cleans house as the Foot Soldier and the All-Star zombies, Clyde decides it’s time to get started on the pizza. The Donovans’ kitchen is understocked with normal cooking things and overstocked with microwave dinners and dirty dishes. It’s clearly a home of males, and though this makes their living room sweet—large TV, no kitsch—the cooking space is disappointing in its lack.

Clyde dusts some crumbs off the counter. “I’ll roll the dough and you guys figure the rest out.”

They divide the labor between them; Wendy insists on making sauce from scratch though the Donovans got jarfuls of tomato paste, Jimmy and Craig chop vegetables and onions, Token browns sausage in a pan next to Tweek who fries mushrooms. The little kitchen soon smells of garlic and basil. Tweek feels at such ease, earlier discomfort all but forgotten. There isn’t much he values over his bond to these particular people.

“Tweek, c’mon dude, are you sure you don’t want any bacon?” Clyde asks. “Some pepperoni, at least?”

“No way, man. That’s bad karma!”

“You need the protein or you’ll waste away!” he jokes, bumping hips with Tweek, and because Clyde is large and heavy Tweek wobbles. “Case in point,” he says.

“That’s not how that works, Clyde,” Wendy says. “Me and Tweek can share a pizza, I’d prefer meatless too.”

“Whatever you guys say.”

Tweek shares a smile with Wendy—he’s in need of an ally. They divide the pizza along the middle and make a side each, then realize the other’s looks tasty too and split it once more. When the first pizza is cooking in the oven they all return to the living room where the  _Plants vs Zombies_ menu music is playing.

“Wendy, Token, you’re up!” Jimmy says.

“Oh! Hand me the controller please!”

As they play Clyde and Jimmy act as cheerleaders and the room gets loud from their yelling. Tweek and Craig take one of the armchairs and watch the TV from the side. This time Tweek climbs straight onto Craig’s lap. Craig is still as warm, and he smells faintly of pepperoni and cheese because he didn’t wash his hands properly. Tweek doesn’t make him get up and clean off, too unwilling to move, even when the food is ready. Token hands them plates and napkins. They both end up with greasy fingers, as well as garlic breath, and Tweek fights the urge to kiss him, to lick the oil off his skin.

“Anyone’s got leftovers?” Clyde asks. He’s the fastest eater Tweek knows, after Eric Cartman of course.

“Only if you can handle mushroom,” Tweek offers.

“I guess mushroom can be pretty good.” Clyde nabs Tweek’s uneaten slice. “Thanks!”

“Where’s the bathroom?” Wendy asks.

Tweek gets up, reluctantly, and beckons for her to follow. “I’ll show you. I have to wash my hands anyway.”

When his hands are clean she asks him to wait for her. This troubles him. He stands awkwardly in the hallway staring at the wooden, heart shaped sign nailed to the door, which says in a swirly font  _“Welcome to the Loo”_ —no doubt a leftover from Ms Donovan no one has bothered to get rid of—and wonders what she could want with him in private.

Wendy exits the bathroom and smiles at him, doing nothing to dispel his worries.

“Using someone else’s bathroom is always so weird,” she says. ”Clyde’s tap doesn’t seem to have a medium setting. I almost burnt my fingers off!”

Tweek offers a weak smile back and shrugs.

“Are you really not going to college?” she asks, and there it is. He knew it! “I could help you look around,” she offers.

“You’re breaking Clyde’s rule! No school talk!”

“Come on, Tweek. He can’t even hear us out here.”

He knows how persistent she can be. When she backs someone into a corner, the best option is to give in. His head jerks to the side, compulsively, pulling a muscle in his neck.

“ _Ack!_  Well, I don’t know… My parents expect me to take over the coffee shop.”

She frowns. “But you said it was going badly. Anyway, you should get to decide your future on your own.”

Not sure how to voice his thoughts, he stays silent.

“It’s not just because Craig’s staying in South Park, right?” she asks, eyes narrowed like she’s trying to read his mind through whatever he decides to answer.

“Wendy, I really don’t know, okay? What would I study? I suck at studying! My grades are awful. The only thing I know is coffee! I wouldn’t even mind working for Dad, honestly, if I thought the shop wasn’t going to bankrupt…”

“With your work experience you could probably get a job as a barista anywhere,” she points out.

“I can’t work at Harbucks! My family would disown me! And everything else is outside of South Park.”

“You don’t want to leave South Park. So it  _is_ about Craig?”

“Umm…” God damn it! He knew she was a mind reader. Or maybe he’s just that obvious. He shuffles, uncomfortable, not even sure himself of what he wants.

Her expression shifts into mellowed understanding, the wrinkle above her brows smoothing out, the corners of her mouth tilting up.

“No, I got you,” she says. “It’s okay. I’m sorry if I sound preaching or something. I just want you to do well, you know?” She pauses for several moments, contemplating in that way of hers that is so very visual—hand on her chin, eyes looking up she might discover the answers to her questions written on the ceiling. “The business might yet turn around. Even small town people like their morning coffee.”

“Not if it tastes like shit!” He’s feeling a rant forcing itself to be heard. “The espresso machine— Dad totally let it waste away with negligence. Everything it makes tastes like rust! He refuses to fix it, because it’s vintage and repairing it would lessen the quality of the coffee or something. It makes no sense!” He shudders, moaning unhappily. “He doesn’t know up from down anymore… I think crazy might run in the family. Soon I’ll be trying to sell meth from the back room too— Wait!” He slaps a hand over his own mouth. “I didn’t tell you that!”

“It’s okay Tweek,” she says, “it’s not a well kept secret. And please don’t call yourself crazy! You’re so smart and self-aware! You need to talk to your dad, maybe get your mom to help you.”

He groans, because there’s no way that would work. However her encouragement, inexplicably, does make him feel a little bit better.

“I mean it! Honestly!” she says. “We don’t have to talk more about this right now, but if you ever want to, I’m here, okay?”

He nods, grateful but  _so_ ready to be done with the conversation and return to their friends in the living room. Wendy lays a hand on his arm, leading him back down the hallway.

“Did you guys get stuck in the t-toilet?” Jimmy asks when they return.

“Yeah, my whole ass got wedged. Tweek had to break in and pull me out,” Wendy jokes.

Tweek’s impressed. She will probably fit right in. Their group has remained the same since elementary school but that doesn’t mean it can’t change for the better.

“Guys, don’t joke about falling into toilets please! It’s a sensitive subject in this house!” Clyde whines.

Tweek pads over to Craig, who’s reclaimed the armchair.

“There you are babe,” Craig says, pulling Tweek down onto his lap. “I wanna play a round with you. I noticed you haven’t won one ye— Woah, you’re trembling. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay! Promise,” Tweek says. He hadn’t noticed, but Craig is right; there’s a slight tremor to his shoulders. Did the topic really upset him so? He tries to relax, deep breath in, out though the nose. “You ‘noticed I haven’t won one’? Were you trying to subtly brag about how good you are? You know being good at  _Plants_ doesn’t make you cool, right?”

“I’m so hurt,” Craig says, not sounding like it at all. “All I’m trying to do is take care of my boyfriend, make sure he wins a round.”

Tweek giggles, stupidly charmed. They do win their round together, and then another. They make a good team—melee and healer—and this to Tweek feels significant, like a good sign. When they walk home for the night Tweek feels happier than he’s been in weeks, but the good mood dissipates later, in bed, when he remembers all of the awkward conversations he had; topics that he really should be taking more seriously, before it’s too late.


	2. Chapter 2

In his dream Tweek is working a shift at the coffee shop. It’s empty, as usual, jazz music echoing vaguely between the walls. He flutters around searching for his apron, which seems to be lost. Before he can find it a man walks in, though oddly, the bell does not chime. Tweek hurries back to the counter to ask him what he’d like. But when he faces the man, the words die. The man is masked, wearing a motorcycle helmet with the visor blacked out. He’s tall, imposing. At first Tweek thinks it’s Craig, but then he realizes Craig has been here this whole time, sitting at a corner table, immersed in something on his phone.

Tweek tries to discreetly gain his attention, making hand motions begging him to come over and save Tweek from the faceless man. Craig doesn’t notice. The man is eerily silent, and though Tweek can’t tell he gets the feeling he’s being stared at. What to do? Should he make him a drink? For some reason it seems the most logical course of action. And so he measures out some coffee beans for the grinder, careful not to turn his back on the man. The espresso machine won’t cooperate with him when he tries to pull a shot. Beginning to panic, he punches it hard, and it wails, high pitched like a pained animal.

The sound carries into the real world—Tweek is woken by three, hungry guinea pigs shrieking for breakfast. The sun is up; he can see the light, filtered through the closed blinds. His heart is slamming.

“Ugh, shut the fuck up,” Craig grumbles from his side of the bed, voice gritty and rough.

Tweek kicks at him, meaning: _deal with them._ Once they get going they won’t quiet until they’re fed. Tweek loves them dearly, but they are still Craig’s pets—though this is something Tweek will only emphasize when it’s buttfuck-early in the morning. Their shrill cries grates on his brain, and he is being pulled further and further from sleep by the second. The remnants of the dream fades.

Craig gets up. Tweek watches him stumble across the floor to flick on the lights, scratching at a spot under his shirt. From the closet he pulls a bag of timothy hay, and stuffs handfuls into the hay-rack. It will hold the animals over for a while, until proper breakfast.

“I’ll be back,” Craig calls, already halfway through the door.

For a few minutes Tweek lie in silence, listening to the animals’ chewing—one of his favorite sounds. He can tell what’s going on in the cage by the noises coming from it. Occasionally Pea will get a little too close to Poppy’s food and Tweek will hear her give a squeal in warning. Penny, the smallest of the three, keeps her distance, picking out a straw at a time and shuffling away to her corner to it eat alone. Her feet toddling through the wood shavings make a rustling sound.

Strange dreams or not, he’d like to sleep again. It happens so rarely.

Counting sheep never worked for him. He stares at the ceiling, where he traces Ursa Minor through the sticky residue from the glow in the dark stars Craig stuck there years ago and finally packed away last spring. The constellation ends perfectly above his head with Polaris, formerly the largest plastic star and now the biggest glob of leftover glue. Focusing on the patterns he tries to empty his mind, allowing sleep to come easier.

He’s finally getting drowsy again when his phone vibrates on the bedside table, startling him and Penny both. She scurries noisily into hiding.  

> _Wendy: Morning! I hope I’m not waking you up. I was thinking about yesterday and I feel kinda bad. I’m super focused on college, but it’s not the right choice for everyone (though I know you’d do better than you think!) Being the owner of a business one day isn’t something to scoff at anyway! That’s why I think you should make an attempt at saving the store. Clearly you’re the only one in your family that could._

He stares at the text. Jesus, it’s too early for this. Rubbing at his crusty eyes, he wonders where the hell Craig went. Probably taking a shit.  

> _Tweek: Theres no point!!! Dad would never listen to me!_
> 
> _Wendy: Have you tried though?_
> 
> _Tweek: I just know! Whenever we talk h just ignores me and i get so frustrated_
> 
> _Wendy: Maybe you need to write down your arguments point by point. It helps you keep your head straight. That’s how I endure debate club with without exploding at Cartman and Kyle haha!_

It’s a good idea, in line with the techniques his old therapist used to teach him for sorting out his brain, long ago. It was just before his parents decided he hadn’t made enough progress during his sessions and cancelled all of his appointments. Tweek still doesn’t know whether that was the right choice or not.  

> _Tweek: It wont work. I don’t even know what I’m doing_
> 
> _Wendy: Tweek, why are you giving up without even trying?? I think you’re lacking motivation!_
> 
> _Tweek: Uuuh what do you mean?_
> 
> _Wendy: I know! We should all head to Denver and visit some coffee shops! Maybe once you’re there, in a really nice café, inspiration with strike you!_

The texts sounds like her voice in his head, having an excited pitch that makes him cringe though she’s not in the room with him. 

> _Wendy: I think a little adventure away from South Park would be good for you. For all of us, really!_
> 
> _Tweek: I don’t kno……_
> 
> _Wendy: Well I’m already texting the others! If nothing else, just think of it as a fun day of hanging out with your friends._

He knows, again, that there is no use in arguing with her. The others will probably jump on the idea to visit Denver, because to hick-town kids like them the city is big and bright and exciting. And if his whole clique is going he will obviously go too. He tells her, feeling not as reluctant as he thought he’d be, that he will come. His expectations might be low but a trip to Denver does sound like it could be fun, or at least a welcome distraction from everything else in his life.

When he has put his phone away he’s fully awake. He probably won’t sleep for another twenty-four to forty-eight hours at least, as is his regular rhythm. He rolls the blinds up, letting sunlight illuminate the room. Craig’s still not back, so he stays in bed, lazing.

There's a familiar book on the bedside table. Tweek picks it up, opening it at the bookmark: 

 

> _With experience, a driver adjusts his understanding of how a car feels when it is near its limits. A driver becomes comfortable driving on the edge, so when his tires begin to lose adhesion, he can easily correct, pause, and recover. Knowing where and when he can push for a little extra becomes integrated in his being._

Craig’s not much of a reader—the only library he knows is his Steam library—but this is his favorite book. _The Art of Racing in the Rain._ An aunt who would try anything on the bestseller list gifted it to him birthdays ago because it featured race cars and was narrated by a dog. Craig has read it several times, which seems inane to Tweek, who’d be bored by the second read. He did read it once though, and liked it well enough. Especially the dog, who wanted to be reincarnated as a man. He liked the message of the book too: adapting, overcoming—generic as it may be.

He flips mindlessly through the pages. He’s not very adaptive, is he? He doesn’t like change. In this him and Craig are similar, though there is differences in the finer details. Craig deals with unwelcome events like a normal person by moving on. Tweek does not. Routines don’t exactly improve Tweek’s psychology, but surprises certainly makes everything worse.

An easy example: the whole motorcycle ordeal. So far he has done a terrible job of accepting it as a part of his—and of Craig’s—life. His objections are valid though. It is dangerous! Why is he the bad guy for caring about Craig’s safety? Craig’s clearly lost all of his typically very rational marbles.

The last time Tweek truly adapted to an inversion of his everyday life was in fourth grade when him and Craig became “boyfriends”, broken up and for-real-boyfriends again within two days. Looking back he can admit it wasn’t completely out of the blue, but at the time he never would’ve anticipated being in a relationship with another boy.

Yet he had never pictured having a girlfriend or a wife either. It just didn’t seem plausible. He’s too weird, too troubled, too unstable. The idea seemed absurd. Or just… wrong. And maybe those were the foretelling signs. He knows himself these days, or at least this part of himself, the part that has romantic preferences. What he likes, who he’s into.

It’s mostly Craig.

Craig this and Craig that. Is it weird that he’s so stuck on Craig? Being interested in different people would be normal for a teenager like him. Usually you don’t find your life partner at ten years old—it’s not the eight hundreds! Should he be craving to fish around, so to speak? The concept seems daunting as hell.

If Wendy were here she’d probably say he’s scared of giving up something that feels secure, that he is fearful of feeling inadequate and being rejected by someone new. He wonders if she’d be right. She would then say that he has nothing to worry about, and she would be all supportive and encouraging, were he to look for other people.

But would it be better? Craig is a gift from the cosmos, the one person who has the patience to put up with him, who can predict most of his hangups and knows how to deal with them. No, Tweek could never leave him. He needs him too much. He’s too grateful. Just thinking about it makes his heart, _his soul,_ hurt. Being ungrateful towards what the universe has so graciously given him goes against Tweek’s nature. Right now they’re not exactly sailing smoothly, but Tweek knows within himself that he wants things to work out between then.

What about Craig though? What incentives to stay with Tweek does he have?

Before he can contemplate it properly Craig returns. Tweek hadn’t even heard his footsteps in the hallway and startles when the door opens. _The Art of Racing in the Rain_ flies across the room, as if he could neutralize the intruder by nailing them in the head with a softcover book. It misses the mark and instead hits the far wall with a _thunk,_ several feet to Craig’s side.

 _“Shh!”_ Craig hisses. “Everyone’s still sleeping!”

“Sorry! Ah!”

Craig rolls his eyes. “It’s fine, I should’ve knocked.” He tilts his head, studying Tweek on the bed. “Why are you so tensed up, anyway?”

“No reason! You just surprised me.”

“Sure, if you say so.”

Craig check the guinea pigs, who are not yet bored of the hay. Leaving them be, he moves to pick up the book and put it away in a drawer. He clears Tweek’s discarded clothes off the floor, dumping them in the hamper. Craig is the only teenage boy Tweek knows who never leaves dirty clothes all over his room.

While watching him tidy up Tweek wonders if he should tell Craig about his worries. Tweek knows that Craig knows something is up. He almost wishes Craig would push the issue. Tweek feels it bubbling in his stomach, asking to be let out, aired out, answered.

“What do you think you’d be doing right now, if we weren’t dating?” is what he asks.

Craig stills, caught off guard.

“Same as I’m doing now, I suppose?” His eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I don’t mean in this very moment! More in general.”

“Dude, how the hell should I know? Seriously, why are you asking?”

Craig’s getting testy, though Tweek’s not sure exactly what part of this is setting him off. He hopes it’s because Craig likes imagining being without Tweek as little as Tweek likes imagining being without Craig, but it could very well be the opposite: that this is something Craig has spent time fantasizing about, and is now angry at being caught out.

Tweek clarifies, “Like, what kind of person would you be dating? Ideally, that is.”

“Uh. You’re not answering my question.”

“Well, you’re not answering mine!”

“There’s no way for me to know, is there?” Craig snaps. “If we never dated I probably would’ve been with someone else, but we _are_ dating, so I’m not.”

“You can date someone and still think other people are hot!”

Tweek didn’t mean to become hysterical about this, but cannot help himself. His shoulder trashes. When he’s worked up it’s like his body parts all have wills of their own. Sometimes when this happens he ends up elbowing himself, or knocking his head with his own shoulder. It only makes him more frustrated.

Craig crosses his arms. “Oh, so who are you hot for then?”

“No one! _Arrgh!_ I’m not into anyone.”

“But I have to be, apparently?”

“Surely you’ve thought about it before?” Tweek insists. “What’s your type?”

“Men?”

“But what kind of men? Like, uh…” His eyes fall on the poster above Craig’s desk, the one Craig lovingly made himself in Photoshop and had printed at the local print shop. “Like Ayrton Senna?”

Craig laughs.

“Seriously? That’s fucking funny, dude. Are you worried I’m not into twinks? Let’s stop talking about this, it’s dumb. Come on, we're making food for the little ladies before they start screaming again.“

He reaches into the cage to gather up the food bowls and the water bottle, turns to the door with great purpose but then stops, turning back to Tweek.

“I don’t care if you think other people are hot, by the way. Not Senna, not even one of our classmates,” he says. Rethinks, and adds, “Unless it’s fat-ass. Then we have a problem.”

Tweek sighs, getting out of bed. The conversation wasn’t as much of a catastrophic failure as he for a moment feared it might become, but he also doesn’t feel like his questions have been answered. His intentions were misunderstood and Craig managed to turn it all around on him.

But for now he leaves it be. He trudges barefoot after Craig downstairs and into the kitchen, which is neat and clean. Ms Tucker is orderly, particular about things like crumbs on the table but not in a tyrannical way.

Tweek washes the food dishes with a gentle soap. Craig picks out breakfast for the day: bell pepper, a leaf of kale, broccoli and three small grapes. Peeling the grapes requires more dexterity than Tweek’s fingers are capable of today so he watches as Craig skins them, envious of his steady hands. Such small things tends to end up on the floor when Tweek attempts handling them.

Usually he finds this morning routine of theirs to be comforting. It’s easy to let himself imagine a morning twenty, forty years into the future, where they will still be performing this exact same ritual. Today he doesn’t feel this peace. He’s mulling over their failed communication, trying to dig for covert meanings. It worries him that Craig said he’d consider other people if only they weren't already dating. Him and Tweek could be a total mismatch then, but Craig wouldn’t know because he’s not examining his own preferences. It sounds a lot like the thing Wendy said about habit and history—it’s easier to stay with what you’re used to. Easier, but not necessarily better. The whole thing is making Tweek’s stomach hurt.

He tries to distract himself by moving Dandelion leaves from the sink where they’ve been drying overnight in a sieve to a plastic bag. Yesterday, on the walk home, they picked them by the side of a trench. They are a vivid middle-of-summer green, a little bit mottled but perfectly edible after a wash. It will be lunch for the guinea pigs. The _sound_ of them eating might be satisfying but _watching_ them eat is downright delightful, Tweek thinks. They slurp grass and leaves like spaghetti. It’s one of those small things he thoroughly appreciates about life.

The girls calls out to them impatiently when they return to the bedroom but quiet when fed.

“Spoiled assholes,” Craig mutters, fondly. For a few minutes they stand there, observing them eat.

Since leaving the room they’ve not spoken to each other, and the remnants of the words they left behind seem tangible in the stuffy air. Tweek opens the window, but of course it doesn’t really help. He sits down on the bed. The sheets are no longer warm with their body heat and seem uninviting. He tugs Craig’s pillow into his lap, hugging it.

He says, “I meant it, earlier. That I’m not into anyone. That’s not why I asked.”

“Okay.”

Dismissive, disinterested. Tweek wishes Craig would cooperate. It’s hard to tell when he’s upset and hiding it behind impassiveness contra when he really doesn’t think of something as a big deal.

“Are you mad at me?” Tweek asks.

“No. Why would I be? Are you mad at me?”

“No!”

“Then we’re good,” Craig says.

He appears to be honest enough; his brows are soft and his eyes lack a hard edge. After a moment he seems satisfied that Tweek believes him. Honestly, all Tweek wants is for them to not fight. He regrets bringing it up.

Craig’s head tilts, and he smiles. There’s something mischievous in those eyes now. “Is there really _no one_ you’re into?”

“I know why you’re asking!” Tweek cries, cheeks heating up. “I can see through you!”

Craig snickers. “Well?”

“Umm…” Tweek begins. ”Obviously— _Ugh._ You know!”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up!”

“I’ve not said anything, honey,” Craig teases. He crosses the room to stand before Tweek, eyeing him up and down. “But I think you look alright too.”

Tweek feigns indignity. “Just ‘alright’?”

Craig laughs again.

“Fine,” he says. “You’re the prettiest person I know.”

Tweek has no good response to that. He did bait for that sort of answer, but had not actually expected it to be said with such sincerity. He feels red, like a stop sign.

Hands come to cradle his face. Craig’s thumbs trace over the thin skin below his eyes, across the lip of the socket bone. Tweek holds his breath, waiting.

“Darling,” Craig says, bends down and kisses him.

It’s firm; Craig’s mouth against his, the hold on his cheeks, keeping him still. The rest of Tweek is shaking—in excitement? His heartbeat thrums, overjoyed. It feels would he could melt if Craig did not hold him up. Could black out…

Tweek remembers to breathe—his head clears.

The angle is all wrong; Craig’s bent over double. It won’t do! He pulls back, pulling Craig with him until he feels the the wall against his spine. Craig crawls onto the bed. It’s not really any better. Still not right. Craig seems frustrated too, tilting his head this way and that, pushing their lips together over and over, briefly and unsatisfyingly.

“C’mon” he mumbles, tugging at Tweek, trying to rearrange him in some way that takes a while for Tweek to comprehend. Eventually he understands—switch places. Of course! Then he’s straddling Craig’s lap, and from then on it’s all heat and urgency; Craig’s hands on his hips, moving up under his pajamas, tickling his skin. Now they can _really_ kiss, all tongue in big, sweeping movements. He traces each crooked tooth in Craig’s mouth, feels their morning fuzz with the tip of his tongue.

The need to be closer sits like a hook in his belly, pulling him forward, though they’re already chest to chest. God, he lives for this. Adores kissing, gross and wet. He hums, happily, and Craig moans into the kiss.

When his body begins to feel like a balloon straining to burst Tweek slows, breaks away. He rests his forehead against Craig’s, eyes shut, trying to catch his breath. Like he’s run a marathon. He’s shivering, not sure what emotions to feel.

Craig’s fingers card through his hair. It’s soothing, loving.

They were arguing just before this. They’ve been arguing for the past two weeks, really. Mostly through what has been left unspoken, silent but obvious disagreements over fundamental things. Wishing the other to be different, less difficult. It hasn’t exactly lessened their tactility, but still Tweek has felt the distance between them.

He would like it if him and Craig have now reached a turning point, but they probably haven’t. You don’t solve your issues by kissing, nice as it is. This is a song and dance number they both know by heart: endless bickering and issues that go unsolved, sex and affection because it’s easier to be nice when your mouth is occupied.

A press of lips on his nose. He open his eyes.

“Don’t space out, babe,” Craig says. He rubs at Tweek’s sides, thumbing his hip bones through the cotton shirt.

“Gnnh— I’m right here.”

“Good.”

Tweek sighs, sinking back on his haunches. “We should have brushed our teeth first.”

“Mmh. I didn’t really care.”

“Me neither.”

Tweek smiles, and Craig returns it.

“But we should do it now. It’s like, uh _—_ ” Craig reaches over to Tweek’s phone on the bedside table. “ _—_ eight am. Actually, let’s go back to bed.”

“There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep!” Tweek says. “Let’s have breakfast. Village Inn?”

“Should we take the motorcycle?” Craig asks. Tweek nods, hesitant. “Really? Sweet.”

Craig gets so excited whenever Tweek agrees to ride with him. It’s cute. Also a little terrifying; it means he might have to agree to it for the rest of forever to make Craig happy. And he does want to make Craig happy! Maybe he will eventually get used to it, indifferent to the danger.

Maybe. He hopes.

## \--

Something about riding in a car soothes Tweek. Strange, because the motorcycle scares him so. But it is like this: on the cycle you’re exposed to the world and all of her terrors, naked to the wind and rain, unprotected against outside forces. Within the encasement of the car, however, you feel a little bit like a baby in the womb—contained, rocking back and forth. You’re not _really_ safe of course but you could be fooled into thinking you were. He likes to watch the mountains through the window, tensing at every car whooshing by, thinking, maybe the next one will crash into us… But somehow he never panics about it, barely works up a sweat. Car rides became naturalized to him long ago. Since before his first, fragmentary memories were formed his parents ferried him around in their car. As a mere tot he suffered greatly either from colic or a methamphetamine addiction (his mom will not tell) and some days a car ride was apparently the only thing that would cease his crying.

Craig is driving extra safely today. He’s abiding the speed limit, keeping both hands on the wheel, not even flipping off passing cars. Token has allowed him to drive his Cadillac, something Craig’s been drooling for since Token was gifted it on his birthday. Tweek can’t believe he’s trusting Craig with it. Is he that confident in Craig’s driving? Or just rich enough that it doesn’t matter? Token’s so down to earth most of the time that Tweek tends to forget about his wealth.

Craig has adjusted the driver’s seat to his height, which means that behind him, Tweek has almost no legroom. He pulled the short straw by being the shortest, and is forced cram himself best as he can into the limited space. Wendy sits next to Tweek, her arm pushed up against his, Jimmy to her other side. The mood inside the car is cheer and excitement, despite the overcast sky.

There’s great satisfaction in coming all the way to Denver without their parents chauffeuring them. In the recent year they’ve gained this new sense of freedom, like suddenly the range of their territories have grown. Craig will drive Tweek up the Rockies so they might for a few hours be alone, only them and the wilderness. Clyde seems to travel to both here and there, disappearing at weekend nights and showing up Monday morning hungover and full of stories. Jimmy might take the bus or the train to some far-off city to hook up with his number-whatever girlfriend, and no longer will anyone worriedly call CPS on “that poor, lost, handicapped little boy”.

Along the horizon line Denver’s skyscrapers appears gradually, like a long-awaited promised land. They all agree they are ravenous by now, and hurry to find parking within a multistory garage by the train station. Craig seems sorrowful to leave the Cadillac behind. Him and Token continue singing the car praise, which they’ve done for most of the journey. Jimmy rolls his eye at them, bumping arms with Tweek’s in a can-you-believe-these-nerds gesture.

The trees cast faint shadows on the sidewalk. Their leaves seem lustrous even in the dim sunlight, paint drips of green among the dull city architecture. Tweek follows along with the group, unsure of whether anyone is leading them anywhere or if they are just flocking like birds.

“I’m gonna be so sad when summer is over,” Wendy says. “I’ve only now gotten used to having free time.”

“You didn’t have to sign up f-for all the AP classes,” Jimmy points out.

Wendy sighs. “Yes, well… but I kind of did. Never mind that now though.” She notions to the other side of the street, at a café showing off cakes in the big storefront window. “Lunch there?”

It’s a normal type of coffee shop with wooden and steel furnishing, a mix of stools and low, plush couches. On a sunnier day there might’ve been more people under the umbrellas at the outdoor seating, but today almost everyone has crammed inside. The group waits in line together, oohing over the little confectioneries in the display cases. Tweek takes care to look around, comparing it to what he’s used to. The first thing that strikes him, oddly, is the music—though mostly drowned by the hum of patrons he can hear some radio hit playing. No jazz here.

How modern and nice it seems, he thinks. Bare light bulbs hang by long cords, spreading a low, warm light over the room. By the counter there are baskets of freshly baked bread, pastries in curls and knots, slices of pie on small china. On a board salads, cold pasta dishes and sandwich options are advertised. And, of course, the coffee: a menu remarkable in its scope. Between the counter and the various machines the two baristas move purposefully like worker ants.

Craig nudges Tweek’s side. “What would you like?”

“I thought it was my turn to pay?”

“If you insist. I don’t mind though.”

“But I do,” Tweek huffs. It’s sort of sweet, but Tweek has at least some principles to uphold. “So, what would _you_ like?”

Craig considers for a moment. “Eh. Maybe a bagel?”

Tweek orders bagels for them both, an espresso for himself and a flat white for Craig—obviously he knows Craig’s coffee preferences.

“We’ll wait for the stuff,” Token says. ”See if you can find us a table?”

The overcrowdedness forces the lot of them outside. It’s not so bad; there’s only a slight, cold breeze. And it’s cozy. Tweek takes fancy to the paper lanterns strung up around the fencing, colorful little orbs that bob in the wind. From a basket by the door Craig pulls a few woolly blankets. Tweek feels warm even before the blanket is draped over his shoulders, a warmth that originates from somewhere deeply within him, and he gives Craig a grateful smile.

“Rude!” Jimmy yells when he gets a blanket tossed in the face. “Where’s the l-l-love?”

Craig gives him the finger. “It’s called ‘tough love’, learn to deal.”

Wendy appears in the door then, waving at them to come pick up their orders. When they’re all finally seated Tweek wastes not a second before taking a big gulp of his coffee. The cup is almost too hot to touch and he scalds his tongue on the drink. Still, it’s very good. Aromatic and complicated.

“This is really nice, isn’t it?” Wendy asks, a few bites into her feta and olive salad.

“Kind of overpriced,” Craig says, though he didn’t even pay. Jimmy hums in agreement.

“It’s right in the middle of downtown,” Token says. _“ And_ a hipster place. What did you expect?”

Tweek regards his half eaten bagel, wistful. “Man, could you imagine if we sold bread and stuff?”

“You’d have to hire a baker though,” Token points out. “And I’m not sure what the market for baked goods in South Park is.”

Wendy shakes her head in disagreement. “I think people would like it.”

It’s a nice idea, but impossible. “There’s no way we could afford a baker. Dad doesn’t even pay me a real salary!” Tweek can imagine it though—the smell of yeast and dough in the mornings, the heat of the ovens, slicing fluffy loaves for early-risen customers.

“You should really push for that, by the way,” Wendy says. “You’re going to run into a heap of issues down the line if he continues to keep you off the books.”

“Ugh! I know!” It’s a whole other problem he’s been trying to not think about, because there’s nothing to be done and thinking about it only makes him freak out. Too late though—he is thinking about it now. “I don’t want to end up in jail!”

“Deep breaths, honey.”

Tweek takes a gulp of air, and then a gulp of coffee.

Jimmy pats him on the arm. “I think he’s the one who’d be jailed, anyway.”

“It’s all going to end up such a disaster,” Tweek says into his coffee cup. “Dad doesn’t think anything bad will happen. I mean, it took _that much_ for him to stop selling drugs! In his mind, he’s just doing what is best for the business… Sometimes I think they had me just to work their store.”

He’s met by only pitying looks, making him want to shrink away from their gazes. Or claw his hair out. His fucked up life is so embarrassing.

“No offense, but I hate your dad,” Craig says, voice devoid of emphasis or intonation, dead serious.

 _"Nggh_ , Craig, please...”

“He’s a little cray-cray, for real,” Jimmy agrees. “I don’t understand why you want— w-why you want to— Couldn’t you apply for work somewhere else? There’s literally a Harbucks every other block here. _Somewhere_ is gonna be hiring when you graduate.”

“What will that help when he’s got no legitimate paperwork to show off all his experience?” Wendy counters. Tweek can tell she’s frustrated by the way they keep hitting dead ends. She is known to be able to take on any problem, yet here is one she can’t seem to get her hands around properly.

“No— Or yes, you’re right. But i don’t want to work anywhere else, I think,” Tweek confesses.

She looks at him, eyes narrowed. She’s thinking about the “Craig thing”, and, alright, that is part of it. But there is more, something he only halfway understands himself. Being at this unfamiliar coffee shop and seeing how pleasant it is makes him think of what Tweek Bros. was like during its heydays under his grandfather’s care.

He says, “I know it’s just a store, but I feel like it has been mistreated. Is that weird? It was a really cool place back in my grandpa’s days. He had a dream of being a business owner, so he opened his coffee shop in this middle-of-nowhere town. And it probably sucked because what did he know about coffee? But I guess he learnt, since it was like the center hub of the town for a while, or so Mom says at least. Isn’t that so sweet? He cared a lot about it—real love went into it! It makes me angry that it’s been ruined!”

His tongue feels clumsy, like he’s discovering the words as they are being spoken. “I know my dad cares too, in his own way. His vision is just muddled by— by something! A weird sense of pride? Importance? He’s just a know-it-all. And Mom is mostly compliant in whatever he does, at least regarding business. That’s why he married her, I think.”

Putting it into words is making him realize that his investment in the family business runs deeper than he first thought. He doesn’t want to leave it, to let it fall further into ruin. But having figured this out presents no solution. And Tweek needs solutions. He feels like he has now committed further to a hopeless cause, emotionally trapping himself.

“Oh, Tweek! You just _have_ to do something!” Wendy says, somehow sounding even more passionate about it than him. “Surely we will be able to think of something? Come up with a plan? And you really ought to address the legal aspect of your employment.”

“I’m sure we can get Cartman or one of those g-guys to counterfeit paperwork for you,” Jimmy suggests. “They’re always up to stuff like that.”

“And then what? I’ll owe Cartman a liver! Ah! No way!” If Richard doesn’t sell him into slavery or prostitution, Cartman surely will. He’s evil like that.

“Don’t advise him to do illegal things!” Wendy scolds. She turns to Tweek, pleading, “Really, just push the issue and see where it goes. Don’t attack him, but be firm. We’ve got your back, right guys?”

“Of course,” and, “For sure,” Token and Jimmy says.

Craig takes Tweek’s hand and squeezes. They’re all acting as if he’s about to depart on some dangerous, far away mission, or start chemo treatment. The support has the unintended effect of making him more nervous, because now he feels even more like he _has_ to do something. He pokes at his bread, appetite lost. The hummus is looking kind of gross and gunky all of a sudden.

“I’ll try...” he says, hoping it will sate them.

Wendy lays a hand over his wrist, a gesture of solidarity. In the silence that follows he becomes aware of the pedestrians walking by. Can they see him jerking, shaking, whining? Do they care? This is not something that concerns him often—what is it to them, anyway?—but right now the openness of the area has him feeling vulnerable and watched.

It’s a relief when Craig’s phone vibrates on the tabletop. This distracts everyone. Tweek breathes out—to be at the center of so much concern from so many people is humiliating. Craig unlocks his phone, chuckles.

“Clyde sends his regards,” he says, turning his phone so they may all see.

It’s a picture Clyde’s snapped of his legs stretched out on his couch, a bag of Doritos and a soda by his side, the Xbox showing the loading screen of _GTA V_.  

> _Clyde: See this is the fun y’all missing out on! :ppp I hope its raining wherever u are, fuckface_

“Oh no, you don’t think he’s actually upset?” Wendy asks. “We should’ve waited for him...”

Craig brushes her off. “Nah. He’s just a whiny bitch. C’mon, let’s send him a picture to _really_ make him upset.”

They bunch together around the table, smiling into the camera over their foodstuffs. Craig holds the phone in one arm and gives the finger with his other. Tweek’s impressed he doesn’t drop his phone; clearly he’s experienced in the art of selfie flipp-offs. They all break into giggles when Clyde replies with an exaggeratedly sad-faced selfie. Tweek leans over the armrest of his chair to read Craig’s phone:

> _Craig: Were having a great time. Fuck you. Don’t be at work next time if you want to come_
> 
> _Clyde: :( Not my fault!! You should play blops w me later to make up for it_
> 
> _Craig: Fuck yeah blops. Has nothing to do with making it up to you though, don’t get any ideas_
> 
> _Clyde: pssh I know you love me <3 see ya later _
> 
> _Craig: See you_

“Are you dropping me off at home then?” Tweek asks. He’d been looking forward to hanging out with Craig later, alone. The more time they spend together, the closer he’s getting to figuring out what their relationship really means. He hopes. He doesn’t want to be clingy though.

“Why? You don’t wanna play with me and Clyde?”

“No— I mean, yes, I do! Sure!” he hurries to say, happy Craig’s not chasing him off. “I thought— Never mind!”

“Cool.”

And that’s that. Everyone has more or less finished eating; they pile plates and cups into neat stacks for the employees to pick up, tossing their leftovers in a trashcan on their way out. An opportunistic and fearless pigeon dives right in. It’s past two in the afternoon by now, and the sun has finally made an appearance.

“Where to next?” Token asks. They’re standing on the sidewalk, looking around.

“Let’s window-shop until we figure something better out,” Wendy suggests.

With shrugs of agreement they all follow her down the road. After a few steps Craig takes Tweek’s hand, intertwining their fingers. Tweek fights against the dumb smile that tries to break out on his face, but it’s ultimately and unsurprisingly a losing battle. He hopes he will always feel this giddy whenever they hold hands, no matter how many years pass. Could another person ever affect him like this? He doubts it.

There truly is much to see in Denver for five teenagers on a day off. Everyone has been here plenty of times in the past, but without adult supervision the city appears in a new, curious light. Tweek is glad he doesn’t have to follow his parents around as they search for the ugliest chair cushions imaginable or some other worthless paraphernalia. Instead they can all stroll along the shopping streets at their own whim, pointing at whatever curiosities they see within. Isn’t that hoodie just so sweet? See these here sneakers? Look at this atrocious statuette of a monkey—it has a huge erection! They send a picture of that one to Clyde.

Evening is approaching ever so slowly when they tire of sightseeing. Again it is Wendy who leads them to yet another café, the inconspicuous little building hidden behind a large honeysuckle. Tweek appreciates her devotion to her mission of “inspiring” him. The flowering bush is admittedly sparking something in him, and he’d like to sit outside, in the aura of its syrupy perfume. It’s getting cold for real though.

The low couches they find inside, where it’s cozy and warm, are good enough. Token and Wendy pass a latte back and forth, looking cute together. Craig would never drink a plain espresso, else Tweek would offer him his cup too, and God, will he ever stop comparing them to other couples? He shifts instead to observe his surroundings, seeking that inspiration Wendy said he’d find.

This place too has an atmosphere that makes you feel right at home, secretive and intimate. The mismatched seats and tables are crammed into the small interior space. There’s something about it that says: “this is everyone’s favorite spot.” Could this be translated into something befitting South Park? Imagine that! He’d love to come to work every day if he knew people viewed their establishment as a treat, not as a last resort when the need for a pick-me-up outweighs any sense of quality or taste. It would be a purposeful way to live his life, he thinks, serving the admittedly pretty shitty but mostly well-meaning population of their hometown.

Is there really nothing he can do? Would it hurt so terribly to at least try? When did he become such a coward, where did his spine go? He’s sure he’s accomplished far crazier things in the past.

The others’ chatting is indistinguishable from the general susurrus of the café. Through the window he watches the honeysuckle, her drooping flowers swaying in the breeze. Tranquil. Utterly at peace. Absurdly, he feels envious of the plant.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 2019-06-30: There is now a smutty bonus story called Joyrides [[Link]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19419514). It isn't important to the plot at all so feel free to skip it. Chronologically it takes place somewhere in the middle of this fic.

Tweek had worked from morning to mid-afternoon in the coffee shop, serving an underwhelming six customers in those hours, and now he is passing time waiting for Craig to get off work too.

He had done little but think during his shift. Ways he could attempt to fix what was wrong. Ways he could approach his dad, what to tell him, and how. He’s come up with nothing. Not a single scenario he imagined had a favorable outcome, because he knows his dad is impossible to reason with. Tweek never was any good at reasoning, anyway.

The thoughts spin in his head. Everything that is wrong and bad, whirling together in a blur, his head a washing machine at full speed. Questions which had been gnawing at him all day, making each hour insufferable. His anxiety feels too great for his body, as if it is about to come crawling out of his skin, bursting from his chest like the creature in _Alien._

To regain control he needs to meditate.

He crosses his legs, and closes his eyes. Breathing first: in through the nose, ballooning his stomach, and out through the mouth. Focusing on each breath pushes the unpleasant thoughts away to the edges of his consciousness. Dr Norris had taught him how to meditate during their first session together, long ago. It’s not easy, but when it works, it works.

Dr Norris had opened his eyes to a lot of things. Concepts like peace of mind, body and soul, emptiness and harmony. Tweek wishes, like many times before, that he could have continued with his therapy. Perhaps with guidance he’d have made actual progress and his life would be different now. Dr Norris was an oddball for sure, but he seemed to possess an endless well of wisdom which he was eager to share with Tweek.

There is little use in dwelling on it now though. Tweek directs his attention to his body instead, one isolated part at a time. Acknowledges its existence, as if he were a third party observer. Here are his hands, his arms, his feet, his neck. His head, and here his eyes, which are closed. His nose, no scents picked up, because he didn’t bother to light any incense or candles. In the walls the pipes are creaking, but otherwise the house is silent. Mom is at the store, his dad is God knows where. Whenever he comes back Tweek will have to talk to him. Start easy, say just _one_ thing. He’d like to be officially employed, for example. It would help him greatly if he were. He could surely make that argument— But he isn’t supposed to think about that now. It’s okay though. Try again.

His shoulders: tense and knotted. He makes an effort to relax. Keeps breathing in and out. The window is open just a sliver, and a cool breeze is sneaking in, raising the hairs on his arms. He shivers. His hands lay on his crossed legs, fingers slack. Craig is always impressed by how he can rest each of his feet on their opposite thigh, in the Full Lotus position. Flexibility comes with practice, Tweek had said, and Craig asked, shall we practice? Tweek had yelled, burning with embarrassment, and Craig had laughed. Tweek feels hot remembering—

This is not working at all.

Dr Norris taught him what to do if he struggles to concentrate. Focus on something real, read a poem or a sutra. Tweek recites, silently:

> _Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva when practicing deeply the Prajna Paramita perceives that all five skandhas are empty and is saved from all suffering and distress…_

He hopes the power of these old words can help him find a moment of clarity.

>   _…that which is form is emptiness, that which is emptiness is form. The same is true of feelings, perceptions, impulses, consciousness…_

What words could he use on his dad? How should he phrase his argument? Talking to Richard Tweak is notoriously hard, even for the people who know him the best. He only hears half of what you say and what he does hear he will interpret however he wishes. Why does Mom put up with it? She is strange too—their whole family is—but Tweek would like to think that none of them compares to Richard.

>   _…no eyes, no ears, no nose, no tongue, no body, no mind; no color, no sound, no smell, no taste, no touch, no object of mind…_

He could say the truth: no one likes our coffee. But Dad would never listen to that. It would be like asking a normal person to stop believing in gravity. Such a fundamental part of reality cannot be questioned. Of course I will hurt my toe if I drop this hammer above it, and of course the town loves our coffee. What’s the difference? In Richard’s worldview there is none.

If changing up the coffee is out of question, maybe he can push for written testimony of his work experience so he might be able to land gracefully when the Jenga tower that is their business inevitably crumbles underneath them all. He could say, “I refuse to work unless you employ me,” but Tweek can predict how that will play out. Dad will say, “Okay, Son, but we can’t afford that so I would soon be forced to sell you into slavery to earn back the money.” He will dial up some Russian thugs who show up and take Tweek away, and in that process Richard will have liberate himself from any requirement to pay employment taxes _and_ Tweek’s body would fetch him some much needed income to boot. Tweek will be shipped across the Pacific in a ship infested with rats and fleas, suffer dysentery and, if he lives though the experience, be forced to work on the construction of a soccer stadium or something of that kind, until the government figures out he’s gay and imprison him for it. He will never see any of his friends again, never again hold hand with Craig or kiss him or speak to him.

So which kind of unpaid labor would Tweek prefer? The coffeehouse, of course.

>   _…no suffering, no origination, no stopping, no path, no cognition, also no attainment with nothing to attain_ —

“Tweek, there you are.”

Tweek screams. Being snatched out of his running mind gives him a feeling of whiplash.

When he comes to—pushed up against the wallpaper so tightly he could be considered part of it, heart thumping rabbit-quick—he sees it is no Russian thug like he thought, only Dad standing there in the doorway.

_“Dad!_ Why don’t you knock!”

Richard doesn’t hear the question. “If you’re just sitting here doing nothing you should go back to the store and help your mother out.”

“But I _just_ finished my shift! And there’s nothing to help with!” Tweek cries. When talking to Richard he can never stop himself from yelling. He tries to collect his bearings, peeling himself from the wall and attempting to sit with some dignity. “Where have you been, by the way?”

“Well, I was speaking to our accountant,” Richard says, voice like velvet. Always so smooth, the most fake thing Tweek’s ever heard. ”But he was really having me, doing me hard, and I thought, ‘no, our business is too good for greedy men like him’, men who cannot see past the dollar bills. So I told him, ‘goodbye, and I wish you happiness and peace.’”

Horrified, Tweek gasps. _“You did what?”_

“People like him only want money, and they want it immediately,” Richard continues, unconcerned. “If he was wise, he’d know that true Quality will win out over trends every time. If we stay true to our principles as a local business, we will be just fine.”

“What are you even talking about! _Argh!”_

“See Tweek, I hope you understand how precious this thing we have is. This business of ours, this saffron flower, we’ve nurtured it for a very long time. And it takes a lot of care but if you have patience you will get something more valuable than gold in return, and this is what he cannot comprehend.”

God, everything he says is so lah-dih-dah. Tweek can barely decipher half the shit he says. He feels a pinprick of sympathy for their now former accountant. No doubt he was confused, the poor man. One wonders how he put up with Richard all those years. He’s probably better off not doing their numbers anymore.

The business is definitely _not_ better off though. If Tweek was waiting for a sign, this is surely it. The call to action. If he doesn’t do something now, he will keep putting it off for all of time. And soon it’s going to be too late.

“Dad, please, don’t you think what he was trying to tell you was important? No one wants our coffee! We make no money! We will have to sell our house, live on the streets! If we don’t change something, we will have to close the shop, don’t you see that? And then: no more family business!”

Richard looks at him like Tweek is a small, dumb child. He speaks slowly, enunciating carefully. “Tweek, you’re being irrational. We’ve talked about this. You have a beautiful mind, my boy, but right now you’re being a total wacko.” He gets that faraway look on his face; a reliable sign that he’s about to devolve into some long-winded metaphor. “This is just rain. It’s cold and uncomfortable and we find ourselves wishing rain didn’t exist. But what comes after rain? After rain nature will flourish. All the seedlings you’ve sown will sprout. You need some good rain every so often. Without rain: drought. We will just have to endure it, right now. Have patience, okay? Small businesses are under constant pressure. From big corporations, automation, fluctuations in the economy, changes in trend. This is something you will learn to understand with time and experience, as I have done.” He begins to back out of the room, speaking through the half-closed door. “Now, you get going, and do our family proud by serving some good coffee to some good people.”

“Wait!” Tweek calls, rising from the bed. Tweek can’t let him get away; this is the closest he will ever get him to pay attention. How to make his case though?

Thinking fast he pleads, “Could you listen to me, just for a minute, please? I care, I really do! About the family, the business, the community. I have ideas that I want to try! Don’t you plan for it to be mine, one day? Let me learn by doing, like you did.” In the stairwell he catches Richard's arm, and he tries to show with the entirety of his being how genuine he is being. Richard’s eyes are distant at first, but when Tweek peers into them it seems to him that there is a hint of _something_ in there. But Tweek can’t decode his thoughts.

Richard is silent for a handful of long, drawn out seconds. “Son, it delights me to hear you express such an interest in the business. I’ve had my doubts about you. I’m sure you understand why.”

Tweek breathes out, nodding. Takes no offense, lest it ruins Tweek’s chances. He doesn’t want to get too hopeful, but maybe his message has finally landed. He lets go of his dad’s arm, suddenly feeling awkward about touching. They’re not very tactile, the two of them.

“If you have ideas, I’d love to hear,” Richard offers.

“Well…” Tweek begins, unsure of how to phrase things in the best way. “The espresso machine, it’s got all kinds of corrosion inside. I think we’re poisoning the customers! We could maybe replace the boiler? I saw one on Ebay of the same make…”

Richard shakes his head. He makes his way down the stairs, and Tweek jogs after him. “A vintage machine will look different from all those fancy, new things. It’s not dangerous. The age adds character to the drink. But you can put some of those big city coffees on the menu if you truly must.”

One of the buttons pop off Tweek’s shirt. He stops tugging at it. “If the shots are bad it won’t make a difference what fancy cocktails we put on the menu! Wait— Where are you even going?”

By the front door Richard pulls his jacket on, grabbing his keys and the glasses he uses when driving. “Well, it seems I have to figure out the books myself from now on. It’s just like the old days, really! I’m heading to the bank.” With a wink he adds, “You do me proud.”

And then he is gone, leaving Tweek pulling his hair out by the door. 

The walk back to Tweek Bros. doesn’t take long. The bell chimes as he enters, and behind the counter Mom turns at the sound, her face falling when she sees it’s not a customer. She puts the smile back on quickly. “Hello, dear. Did you forget something here?”

“Hi, Mom. No, um… I was waiting for Craig but Dad said I should come back and help you?”

Tweek pulls his apron from the hook by the storage room door, slipping it over his head the wrong way around to tie the waist straps in front of his stomach. He’s much too agitated from earlier to do it behind his back—his fingers are jittering awfully. When he tries to turn it back around his arm gets stuck. He growls, frustrated, ready to rip the thing to shreds.

“Oh. Well, there isn’t much to help with right now. But if you man the place for an hour or so I can get started on dinner back home, how does that sound?”

“That’s fine, Mom.”

She unties her apron, hanging it on its peg by the door. It’s the same frilly, grey one she has maintained for as long as Tweek can remember. Many times he’s watched her bleach away stains and mend tears, replacing the ruffles and the pockets every so often to keep it looking fresh. He wonders how much—if any—of the original garment is really left.

Before she has time to go he calls, “Hey, Mom?”

“Yes, Sweetheart?”

“Do you think you can convince Dad to fix the espresso machine?”

“I don’t know. He’s quite protective of the old thing. Your granddad built his success on that machine, you know. It’s got quite a bit of history.” Her smile seems strained. 

“But it’s broken!”

“Now, Tweek, let Dad do his thing,” she says. To his embarrassment, though there is no one here to see, she pulls him in close and kisses him on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a little bit and you can have the rest of the night off, okay?”

“Alright…” he agrees.

She is earnest and beautiful, his mom, but he wishes she wasn’t so meek.

The bell tolls for her exit. Feeling downtrodden he takes his place behind the counter, leaning his elbows on the stone slab and groaning. This didn’t go well at all, did it? He’s not been auctioned off yet, thankfully, but that is pretty much everything good that could be said about the situation. For a moment he had thought he’d gotten through to Richard, but that was obviously too much to hope for. Defeat tastes like iron in his mouth, Tweek is learning. Nothing left to do but to await the inevitable. Maybe when his family has been evicted and their house auctioned off the Tuckers will let him live in Craig’s bedroom. He would like that very much. But of course he couldn’t in good conscience leave his parents out on the streets by themselves, since evidently they have no sense of self preservation. All he can do is continue to aid them best he can and hope his next life will be more fortuitous. The wait will cripple him.

Will he ever feel calm and safe again? It doesn’t seem that way. He didn’t even get to finish meditating!

His phone rumbles. He struggles to dig it out from underneath the apron.

>   _Craig: You’re not home?_
> 
>   _Tweek: Sorry!!! Had to go back o the sore I’m off in like an hour tho_
> 
> _Craig: Eh I’ll come_

Oh, Craig is what he needs! Craig will make him feel better, will release him from his hysteria. Tweek thinks of Craig as a stack of polished rocks balanced upon one another, stable and serene. Or something like that. Something that evokes calm. There is no one else he wishes to see right now, when he feels so hopeless. For once, he prays no customers will show, because he knows he would not manage to show them an iota of quality customer service.

Tweek bites at his nails until an eternity later he spots Craig through the glass windows. He is still wearing his work-wear: a stained, white t-shirt and white utility pants. It’s strange to see him in such a stark, pale color.

“Craig!” Tweek calls out with the door’s chime. He stumbles past the counter to throw his arms around Craig’s middle, cheek rubbing the rough fabric of Craig's shirt.

Craig’s arms come to rest on his shoulders, rubbing in soothing circles. “Jesus, babe. What’s wrong?”

“I tried but… Nothing.” he mumbles into his chest. _“Nggh…_ I told you it wouldn’t work.”

“Oh. You asked him to employ you?”

“No, I don’t wanna go to Russia! I’ll never see you again!”

“Uh, sorry, what?”

“It doesn’t matter. I tried and it didn’t matter.”

“Honey… it’s gonna be alright. We’ll figure something out.”

The way Craig’s murmurs directly into Tweek’s ears makes him shudder. It feel as if the words are burrowing their way deeply into his body, picking at the knots of upset until they begin unravel. He can feel his breathing slow, his hands stilling.

“I’ll take care of you, okay?” Craig whispers. Has he ever said anything with such devotion? Tweek is taken aback.

“Thank you…” is the only response he can come up with. They stand quietly, hugging. Tweek feels zapped out, like he’d could fall sleep right here against Craig’s chest if sleeping was something he actually did.

After a while Craig asks, “So what exactly did he say?”

“He said I can add whatever I want to the menu but that there is nothing wrong with our machinery.”

“Well, you could compromise,” Craig suggests. Tweek, very skeptical of that idea, huffs. “Look. Let him keep his coffee on the menu. No one has to buy it. Get a new coffee maker for everything else.”

“Do you know how expensive an espresso machine is? It’s like— like your motorcycle!”

“I dunno then. You could smash it— No, hear me out. Blame it on your shakes. You drop mugs all the time. Is it insured? ” Tweek shakes his head. “No? Damn. Your grandpa is probably rolling in his grave right now. He sounded cool, when you talked about him. Sane.”

“I think so too!” Tweek says. “He seemed… smart? Or normal, at least. I wonder how Dad turned out the way he did.”

“Sense skipped a generation, maybe?”

Tweek smiles. “I’m not sure I’ve got any either, but thank you. Let me show you some photos of him. We have a few old pictures in the back room.”

“In the back room, eh?” Craig asks, smirking ever so slightly in a way that tells Tweek he is being flirty. ”Sure, lead the way.”

He didn’t mean for it to sound suggestive, but Tweek decides he will play along. Taking Craig’s hand he leads them both backwards, until he feels the doorknob of the storage room jabb his spine. He tries to fumble it open without turning around and breaking the eye contact they’ve established, but is not quite smooth enough. Craig laughs and reaches around him to turn the knob himself.

They don’t bother with leaving the door ajar in case a customer shows up. By this point Tweek feels confident no one ever will again. It’s the one positive thing about the depressing state of their family business, and a big reason he likes to hang out here with Craig: they are left alone. They don’t usually abuse this by kissing among the coffee stocks, but tonight Tweek is seriously considering having sex right here because what does it matter, anyway? What does anything matter, at this point?

Subdued jazz seeps into the room as they enter it. The ceiling lamps give off a very dull, dampened light, and the atmosphere could be mistaken for amorous. Craig corners Tweek next to some empty cardboard boxes. Tweek bumps his elbow, hard, against the wall. Truly romantic. His hiss of pain dissolves into Craig’s mouth catching against his own, the tip of Craig’s tongue teasing the pain from his gritted teeth. Tweek opens for the kiss.

Kissing Craig is heady and mind numbing in the best way. He thinks instead with his flesh and his skin, hyper-aware of all the points of contact between his body and Craig’s. Why Tweek ever bothers with meditation he doesn’t know.

Craig paws at his apron, trying to undo the too-tight knots. When Craig’s fingertips slip beneath Tweek’s shirttails his whole body lights up in anticipation and delight. He listens to their breathing—loud and ragged and out of sync. Craig lays a cold hand flat on his skin, and Tweek draws in a shuddering, shocked gasp, his belly pulling up tight.

To regain his footing he thinks of a diversion, and says, “I was about to show you some photos, remember?” The words are spoken directly from his mouth to Craig’s, the movement of his lips becoming a part of the kiss.

“Honey, the last thing I want to see right now is your deceased grandpa.” Craig nudges Tweek’s head to the side, leaving wet mouth prints all over his neck.

“Well he was alive when—” Tweek begins, but his voice breaks off into a moan when Craig sucks at his skin, ”—When the pictures were taken!”

“Uh huh,” Craig mumbles into his throat. “Fine, show me.”

Craig moves back. Tweek feels the chill which has amassed between the concrete walls and flooring, especially in the spit-damp spots where Craig has left him with kisses. He steps around Craig and begins to look for the pictures.

“Hang on, they are somewhere here…”

Craig watches him, a light smirk that Tweek reads as amusement on his lips. Tweek, with his body still intent on sex, feels slightly disoriented as he tries to remember where the hell he stored their old photographs. In the sink? No, that would be dumb, wouldn’t it? Ah, there! On a high shelf he sees the corner of a wooden frame peeking out. It’s too far up for him to reach without a ladder and Craig snorts, but brings the framed photographs down when he sees what Tweek’s trying to grab. The pictures explode into clouds of dust when Tweek blows on them. When it settles they look relatively unharmed, save some fade from the sunlight, which is the reason they were taken down in the first place.

“Look,” Tweek says, “this is Tweek Bros. in the seventies! It’s so similar, isn’t it? Aside from the sepia tone…”

Craig nods, doing a poor job of pretending to care about what he is shown. He spoons up against Tweek, hugging him around the stomach, pressing their bodies tightly together. Tweek holds one of the photos up, angling it to let Craig see over his shoulder. Craig nuzzles him, his nose poking Tweek in the cheek. His fingertips dip below the first half of an inch of Tweek’s jeans. A shiver travels up and down Tweek’s spine.

“That’s Granddad,” he says, tapping the picture with his nail where an old, bespectacled man stands proudly under the shop sign. Craig hums a nonchalant _“mhm”_ into his ear, and Tweek has to try very hard to keep focus. “And here’s my dad as a… hmm. Teenager? He grew up working here, like me. See, he’s even using that dumb espresso machi— Wait!”

He can’t believe what he’s seeing. He spins around so fast he almost knocks his head with Craig's.

“Look!” he says, thrusting the picture in Craig's face.

Craig, who appears a little caught off guard, squints at the image. “Okay, honey, what is it?”

Tweek jams at the glass with his forefinger. “The machine! It’s not— It’s different! It’s a totally different! Oh my God!”

“Uh.”

“This means that Dad’s whole argument completely pointless!” Tweek is so giddy all his different tics are going off at once. “Wow! Dad must’ve forgotten it’s already been replaced once. I can’t wait to show him this! He will have to agree with me then, right?”

He throws himself at Craig in a hug, careful not to drop the picture. It’s the most precious thing in his possession right now! Actually, he should probably not be holding onto it himself—his hands feel slightly out of control, weak and unsteady.

“This whole thing is so idiotic,” Craig says, hand rubbing Tweek's neck. “Jesus-Goddamn-Christ.”

“I know! Fucking hell!”

As delicately as he can manage, he places the photo on a workbench. He feels so overjoyed that pressure is building behind his eyelids. It would be dumb to cry, so he smashes his mouth back to Craig’s, throwing all his overwhelming emotions into the movements.

“Oh, okay, so now you suddenly want to make out?” Craig asks when they part for a moment. There’s a trace of humor in his voice, and adoration on the way he cups Tweek’s face in his hands.

“Shut up!” Tweek laughs, in between one kiss and another.

He allows himself to sink into it, into Craig’s mouth and body. Craig welcomes him like the guest of honor of a great celebration and Tweek feels special, so special. That is what Craig makes him feel when they kiss. Welcomed and adored. Can there really be something wrong between them when their bodies can mend together like this? In that moment Tweek doesn’t believe so.

Craig’s hands journey down his chest, around his sides, to settle on his ass. “Up,” he commands, and Tweek obliges, throwing himself into Craig’s arms with a little too much force. He lets Craig carry him to the wall, lets Craig prop him against it to better kiss him senseless. The wall is concrete and cold, but Craig is warm, and everything he could ever need.

Neither of them hears the bell, so when his mom calls out, “Tweek, dear? Where’d you go?” they snap apart. Tweek lands, wobbly, on his feet. He’s a snickering mess and Craig is smiling too, uncharacteristically wide, showing all of his crooked teeth. Tweek’s mood has made so many U-turns today, and he’s exhausted but also exhilarated by it. It feels as if finally something might happen, might change.

## \--

Summer, in a last-ditch effort to remain, heaves brilliant and scorching sunlight over South Park and its townspeople. Inside the Tuckers’ garage the heat rises in visible waves around Craig’s motorcycle. The machine must be sizzling hot, Tweek thinks, the kind that melts gummy bears and chocolate on the dashboard of a car.

Neither him nor Craig complains about the heat. It’s a novelty, a gift. The garage door has quietly been left open to allow air to circulate, and a lone oscillating fan works hard at cooling off what the natural breeze cannot. Tweek chews on a Popsicle stick, trying to keep cool and keep his teeth busy. Mom always tells him off for biting at his fingernails.

He wonders what Craig is doing, but it seems he might not know himself. He's looking from his phone to the motorcycle to the grease stained manual that came with it. Tweek is itching to ask about it—or to talk about anything, really—but he holds back. He knows he can be chatty to the point of annoyance. Especially with Craig, which has gotten them into rows in the past.

When working on repairs or keep-up Craig is always silent and immersed, and today is no different. Tweek doesn’t wish to disturb his concentration. He read _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_ earlier in the summer, and now he wonders if tinkering is Craig’s way of meditating. He bought the book for Craig’s birthday, hoping it would become another favorite, but he doesn’t think Craig ever managed to finish it. Too much incomprehensible philosophical blabbering, too little of anything else.

Tweek read it cover to cover. He had questions he hoped it would help him answer. How can people drive fast cars or motorcycles and experience peace? Tweek himself cannot let go of his fears for more than a few moments at a time. There appears to be a connection between motor vehicles and mindfulness, a connection Tweek can't see, can't understand. There must be something he is missing, but he could not find it in Pirsig’s writing.

The calm brought of repair work he can understand better. It requires manual work and concentration, which makes it easy to become absorbed in while leaving no room for intrusive thinking. Like painting, maybe. A cathartic process. 

He observes Craig where he is crouched by the machine. Like Tweek's, his t-shirt is soaked through, and his face is shiny with sweat. He keeps scratching at his jaw, leaving little smudges of grease on his skin.

Tweek must have the most attractive boyfriend in town— no, in the whole county. Craig looks good when he’s unkempt and dirty. While Tweek, disheveled, tends to look like an asylum escapee Craig seems all the more masculine when covered in grease and old, or bruised and muddy after a fight, or when dressed in his paint splattered workplace overall. Or when he was kneeling in front of Tweek’s busted bike freshman year, carefully joining together all of its delicate parts, chain lube all over his hands, concentrated like it was the most important work he’d ever done. Tweek had an awakening of some sort on that day.

His phone chimes, startling him from his ogling. Thank Christ Craig isn’t paying attention to him. How embarrassed Tweek would be! He checks his messages.

In the group chat Clyde has invited himself over to Token’s, and together with Jimmy they are planning out an afternoon of poolside laziness.

“Do you wanna go over to Token’s later?” Tweek asks. “They’re having a pool-party or something.”

Craig emerges from whatever head space he’d been in. He puts aside the tool he’d been using, the tiniest little wrench Tweek’s ever seen. “Uh. Like an actual party? Not really?”

“No, I mean— It’d just be us.”

“Oh, okay. Sure. Should we bring something?”

“I’ll ask!”

They agree to show up at Token’s within an hour with some orange juice. Craig sets to reassemble the motorcycle. On the floor bits and pieces of it are spread out on a towel, neatly lined up in the order they were removed. He retraces his steps, slowly, putting the pieces back together with care.

Tweek keeps quiet and watches, thinking, wanting to say something but not knowing exactly what or where to begin. The silence feels like distance. He wishes that Craig would just know instinctively what Tweek wants from him. It used to piss Tweek off that he didn’t, but he’s grown up now and knows better. Still, if he could grant Craig permission to read his thoughts he’d do so, easy as he trusts Craig with his house keys, the passwords to his phone, his laptop—as long as it meant he could pick Craig’s brain too. Then Tweek would finally know exactly how Craig felt about him.

But that is nothing but unrealistic wistfulness.

They’re not mind readers and so all they have are the regular ways of communication. And Tweek struggles with that. Kissing, touching and sex, sure, that always came easy to them, but everything tends to fall over sideways whenever they speak.

Craig runs a hand along the side of the motorcycle and Tweek wants to ask, do you love me?

But Tweek only knows how to approach topics in roundabout ways. He’d never dare ask this question straight on, not with such a great risk of disappointment and humiliation.

Craig slaps the lid of the toolbox closed and stands, stretching out his back.

“I’m gonna take a shower before we leave,” he announces. “Though I’m sure Token would love it if I got in his pool like this.”

“Should I go get my trunks from home?” Tweek asks.

“I think I saw them in one of my drawers? Go check.”

He does indeed find his trunks in Craig’s dresser, hidden by Craig’s socks and boxer-briefs. It brings a small sort of happiness to him, seeing them scrunched up and forgotten in there, as if they belong as much as any of Craig’s own haphazardly thrown clothing. Does it actually mean anything? No— Or maybe. He will look for small signs of comfort and push the real questions off for another time. Self awareness of his own stupidity makes him wince internally.

On the ride over to Token’s Tweek clings to Craig’s back, mumbling mantras and curses under his breath as Craig speeds along the streets. Not until they arrive at the Black mansion and the gatekeeper leads them to the garage does his breathing begin to ease. The motorcycle looks grungy next to the Blacks’ shiny Rolls-Royce, totally out of place.

The juice is lukewarm from sitting in the storage compartment, and Tweek hurries to ring the doorbell. He keeps the button pushed down—it’s such a large house, how else will they hear? is his excuse, but he’s mostly being an asshole.

“Jesus, calm down!” Token snaps when the door opens. “C’mon, the others are out back.”

The massive house is empty of people when they cross through the foyer to the sitting room. Through the sliding doors leading to the glassed in veranda they can see the full extent of the estate: the carefully maintained landscaping, the ivy-climbed gazebo, the aviary of doves and the rambling grass lawn, equal in size to the neighbor's cow paddock. By the pool Jimmy and Clyde lie sprawled on two deck chairs, their clothes discarded carelessly by their feet. Both of them are sweat drenched.

“Hey guys!” Clyde calls.

Jimmy waves, and motions to a cooler where they can chill the juice.

“Why aren’t you in the pool yet?” Tweek asks.

“We were waiting for you!” Clyde says. “The party doesn’t start until the whole gang’s here, that’s in the honor code!”

“I didn’t know we had one,” Craig says.

“Of course we do, dummy. Hurry up now, Slowpokes!”

Tweek looks around. “Where’s Wendy?”

“She’s with Bebe and the other girls,” Token explains. “Just us boys today.”

Clyde whoops. “Boys’ night!” he exclaims, and takes a cannonball dive into the pool, splashing water on everyone.

“I’m going to kick your fucking ass,” Craig promises, throwing his wet clothes off with resolve and jumping in after him. Clyde shrieks when Craig grabs him by the ankle.

Jimmy calls, “I’ll k-kick your ass too, Clyde!” as he hobbles to the sunken steps in the corner of the pool.

The water is pleasantly cool when Tweek feels it with his toes. He drops in, submerging himself entirely and letting the water wash the sweat from his skin. When he emerges he shakes the water from his dripping hair. By the far end of the pool Craig and Jimmy are wrestling Clyde, trying to dunk his head below the water as he pleads for mercy through sputtering and laughter. Tweek hopes they don’t accidentally drown him.

“It’s like they think we’re still twelve,” Token says, appearing at Tweek’s side.

Tweek nods, but in all honestly it looks like fun, and if Tweek didn’t fear hitting his head against the pool walls and drowning he’d probably join in too. Maybe he should. Isn’t he trying to be braver? And Clyde seems to need help. If Tweek defended him, Craig would probably tackle Tweek too, toss him around. The thought excites him.

Clyde calls uncle just as Tweek is about to jump in. Things calm down then, and they swim lazily talking about nothing of importance—catch-up and gossip and the like. It’s not until they’re beginning to prune that they climb back out, settling on their towels and drying quickly under the sun. A heated argument over what music to play breaks out. The only one to give no input, Tweek notices, is Token, who’s busy texting on his phone.

“Wendy says they left early. Should I invite them over?” Token asks.

Clyde, who looks ready to clock Jimmy for insulting his taste, snaps to attention. “Do you think Bebe would come?”

“I guess? She’s with Wendy now.”

“Well then what are you waiting for? Hurry up and ask!”

Craig grunts. “Didn’t you say ‘boys’ night’ earlier?”

“Well that was before I knew Bebe would come by, wasn’t it?” A dreamy look crosses his face. “You think she’ll let me rub sunscreen on her back?”

Tweek can hear the roll in Craig’s eyes when he says, “Jesus, dude.”

“They’re on their way,” Token cuts in.

Suddenly it’s a scramble to put things together before the girls arrive. They compromise on the music, picking some premade list of summer pop hits. More deck chairs and towels are pulled from the storage shed, arranged on the lawn around the fire pit. The cooler is topped off and snacks brought out. It’s all looking more and more like the party Craig didn’t want to go to, but he doesn’t seem so unenthusiastic now, hauling logs from the garage for the bonfire.

“Oh, everything looks so nice!” Bebe beams when they finally show up. Clustered on the veranda behind her are Wendy, Red and Annie, all carrying multicolored tote bags on their arms with towels and sunglasses and whatever other mysterious stuff girls fill their purses with peeking over the sides.

“You can change inside if you haven’t already. Wendy knows where,” Token tells them.

Bebe gives a salute. “Cool. Be back in a moment.”

Clyde seems moonstruck, watching them head back into the mansion.

“You’re such a dog,” Craig sneers at him. “Close your mouth.”

“I know you don’t understand because you’re gay as hell and stuff, but to the rest of us this is like Christmas _and_ a birthday all at once, okay, so don’t ruin it!”

“Don’t bring us into this, dude,” Token says, and Jimmy shrugs.

The girls must’ve sorted out the sunscreen on their own, probably to Clyde’s great disappointment, because when they reemerge in their swimsuits there’s a sticky sheen to their skin. It doesn’t deter Clyde as he trots after them and shows them where to put their bags, pulling out chairs and being a huge embarrassment. Still, Bebe and Annie giggle at the attention. Tweek wonders if everyone is love-dumb this summer. Maybe it’s something in the air.

When they tire of playing around in the pool it’s getting late, though the sky is no less bright. Tweek climbs out of the water, leaving only Annie and Red to pass Jimmy, who's resting on a floating doughnut, back and forth.

“I’m glad we came here instead,” Wendy sighs. She’s sunning on her stomach, cheek resting on her arms, looking blissful.

“What happened? Why’d you leave early?” Token asks.

“Ugh, I don’t even want to talk about it,” Wendy says, but then proceeds to do so anyway. “It’s just so much drama sometimes! We were trying to stage an intervention. Jenny’s college boyfriend is such a creep, y’know, but she won’t listen.”

“He’s like 25! It’s suuuper inappropriate,” Red explains. With a push she sends Jimmy towards Annie, the tube spinning in circles all the way.

“Yeah!” Wendy says, rolling over onto her back. “Anyway, she got upset with us and of course Lola came to her defense, saying we were just jealous and trying to sabotage her. Um…no!” She waves her arms around erratically when she speaks. “We’re just trying to look out for her!”

“Any time there’s a fight literally everything anyone’s ever done wrong is brought up,” Red says. “It was about to turn into a full on war, so we decided to get the fuck out of there.”

Tweek usually thinks of Cartman and his group as the worst in school, but the girls seem like such a handful too. He’s glad his own friends are more easy going.

“Never mind that now,” Bebe says. She’s crouched by her tote, rummaging around in it. She pulls two clear bottles from it, waving them around. “Look what we brought!”

It’s vodka, sparkling in the sunlight.

“Sweet!” Clyde cheers the same time Token asks, “Did Henry really let you bring that?”

Bebe grins. “The doorman? Yeah, he gave us a wink and said he wouldn’t tell the ‘Mister and Missus'.”

“It will go great with the j-juice!” Jimmy hollers from the far end of the pool.

Oranges and ice cubes does makes the alcohol easy to swallow. It’s chilly in Tweek’s mouth but the moment the drink hits his stomach it spreads warmly throughout his body. In no time he feels loose and carefree, laughing and spinning drinking parasols between his fingers and letting them spiral into the air, seeing who between him and Red can make theirs fly farther.

Arms wind around him from behind, and he screams. Craig’s in his ear, hushing him.

“You gotta stop doing that, man!”

“Babe, you’re drunk,” Craig says. “I can tell from all the way across the lawn.”

_“Pah!_ So are you!”

“Some of us are more lightweights than others. C’mere, let’s sit down.”

Craig leads him away from Red, to the veranda, where he pulls Tweek down on a wicker sofa with plump, striped cushions and decorative pillows.

“I can stand up fine!” Tweek protests. “I’m really not that drunk.”

Craig pulls Tweek in closer. He smells like chlorine and alcohol. “I know,” he says. “I just felt like having you in my lap.”

“You’re the drunk one!” Tweek exclaims, feeling bubbly and warm. “Whatever, man. Didn’t you get enough of me clinging to you on the ride over?”

“No? You hardly ever want to ride with me anyway.”

“I do want to! Or— I wish I wanted to? Ugh. I don’t know.”

“It’s okay,” Craig says. He presses a kiss to Tweek’s cheekbone. “You tried. That’s all I can ask of you.”

“Is it?" Tweek prods. "Maybe you should rightly be asking more.”

“And have you get pissy with me? Nah.”

“I won’t get ‘pissy’!”

“You’re about to get pissy right now. I can tell.”

Craig pokes him in the cheek, and Tweek decides not to argue back. Craig’s right, anyway. Tweek sighs into the crook of his neck. “I just wanna be part of your thing, man.”

“Ok. I’m glad to hear, but honey, it’s fine.”

Tweek shakes his head. “It really isn’t.”

“It is. Do you really think I will be angry because you don’t like my bike? C’mon.”

It’s not anger Tweek fears. It’s boredom, and exasperation, and frustration. But Craig would be offended if he suggested so. “That’s not what I mean,” he says, but can’t think of any way to clarify what he does mean.

_“Aww!”_ someone squeals, and Tweek nearly tumbles off Craig’s lap. “Aren’t you two just the cutest?”

In the doorway Bebe and Annie are making the kind of faces typical when seeing a baby or a small animal.

“Fuck off,” Craig says, giving them the finger, and Tweek can only agree. He’s used to their relationship being a public spectacle, but it has long since felt old.

“Don’t be such a spoilsport.” Bebe pouts. “Whatever. We actually came to say that we’re gonna raid Token’s freezer. You guys want anything?”

“Yes,” Tweek says, springing to a stand. His legs wobble like a newborn gazelle’s. He’s drunk, and sad, and sure Craig will resent him forever, never mind him saying it’s “fine”.

Stuffing his face sounds excellent.

He feels better nibbling on a pint of potato salad, a few seats away from Craig. It’s still ball-sweltering hot. He’s much too tired to move back to the pool, and anyway, you shouldn’t swim for thirty minutes after eating. You could get a cramp and drown. He’s tried to warn the others of this many times, but is always laughed off. Now he watches hawk eyed as Clyde dozes on the swan tube, ready to jump to the rescue if he must (but he really would rather not have to do that). When he feels a nudge in the side he startles.

“So, Tweek, how’d things go with your dad?” Wendy asks.

Clyde, apparently not asleep after all, gasps. “O-M-G, you haven’t told her?”

“It’s not that amazing?” Tweek stabs at the potato cubes. The whole store-thing is causing him a lot of anxiety, and he’d rather not talk about it. “I showed my parents the photograph, and Dad got totally glassy-eyed. He didn’t want to admit it, that he’d forgotten, I think, but Mom backed me up after a while. Uhh… they’re letting me plan a sort of soft relaunch? As a test, or something. The main point is that we’re going to sell actual coffee now.” He sets his fork down in the pile of mush he’s created. Before, his parents wouldn’t trust him with anything, and now suddenly they expect too much.

“Like good tasting coffee?” Bebe asks. “Cuz’ I’d love it if we had an actual coffee shop in town where you can hang out and stuff. Village Inn is so lame.”

“Me too!” Annie agrees. “Think of all the pictures I could take for my Instagram!”

“You should come to the opening then— _nggh_ —if you want…” He really needs people to show up. Small town businesses rely on word of mouth, not on commercial advertising. He knows that much at least.

Bebe seems sold on the idea. “Yeah, def’!” she says, grinning. “I’ll get all the girls together, so it better be good!”

_“Ack!_ Pressure!”

Wendy lays a hand on his arm. “It’s going to be great, don’t worry!” she promises. “I mean, the most important thing is that the drinks are, uhm, drinkable.”

“Right,” Red says, “and we will get the word out for you.”

“But if you need new decor I can show you some of my Pinterest boards for inspiration!” Annie offers.

“Ah, thank you,” Tweek says, smiling and feeling awkward. “One thing at a time though, maybe?” But the girls are only half listening, talking about some coffee shack that left a lingering impression on them.

Only Wendy looks at him. “Nothing ever happens here—well, nothing normal—so the turnout is going to be great,” she promises, and squeezes his arm.

He feels comforted by that, and by the fact that all these other people want to see him succeed—even if just for Instagram prestige.

“Thank you, guys… If this actually goes well, maybe the store will be saved! And my parents will have to put some faith in me.”

“It’s going to be fine,” Wendy says, and Tweek wants to believe her.

Many conversations later the sky turns from pale blue to a gradient of vivid, twilight colors. There’s no stars out yet but the lanterns strung up all over the expansive garden have a similar effect, punctuating the half-darkness with pinpricks of seemingly faraway light. Tweek feels as if he has gorged himself not only on food and drink but also on friendship and the good will of the universe. Just like these dog days, this kind of overindulgence won’t last. Every evening dawn comes a little earlier, as does the approach of fall, and the start of their senior year.

And after that? Next summer everyone will leave, scattering across the country or even the globe, and Tweek? He will still be here, stuck under his parents' roof. But will the store be here too? Will Craig?

“Oh, shit,” Craig exclaims around ten PM. “I can’t drive us home, I’m drunk!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter! This fic is imperfect and there are many things I wish I had done differently, but it was a huge learning experience. It will not be the last thing I post, as I'm already working on more creek stories. Stay on the lookout for those if you enjoyed this!

“One cappuccino, one regular latte and a caramel latte, ready!” Tweek calls, trying to cut though the general buzz of the shop.

Mr Stotch grabs his drinks with a mumbled, “Thank you.” His family waits for him at a table, and by now there aren’t many empty ones left. Tweek Bros. hasn’t been this crowded in years. Half the town has shown up, taking advantage of the special price offer of the day, a short term loss that Tweek hopes—no, is depending on—will turn into a long term profit. 

Today is the launch of their new blend, as they’ve put it. The beans are actually sourced the same as they’ve always been. It’s the espresso machine that is new. Or more correctly put, the boiler and some other miscellaneous inner details are. What a difference! For the first time since Tweek can remember, the coffee it produces tastes rich and nutty, nothing like their trademark, rusted flavor. It keeps its complicated aromas even after the brewing process, no longer overshadowed by a burnt edge.

“A macchiato and a soy-hazelnut latte to go, Tweek, chop-chop!” Richard calls from behind the register.

Tweek hurries to complete the order. Not only has the character of their home brew changed, but their menu has expanded too. Tweek spent hours drawing on the chalkboard yesterday, giving it a much needed do-over, detailing every option in stylized hand lettering.

“Macchiato and soy-hazelnut latte!” Tweek calls. The couple take their cups and leave.

”A vanilla latte to go!” Richard shouts.

Tweek hadn’t expected quite so many people to show up. Whatever Bebe and the others went around saying, it must’ve been convincing, because word has certainly spread. He hopes no one who showed up has been disappointed. In a small town like theirs bad news spread faster than good.

But so far: no sour faces. They’ve been doing their best to avoid a catastrophe. Mom has periodically been shooing the riled methheads off the property with her broom. The unusual level of activity must’ve gotten their hopes of, she said. Poor things. They are like famished animals, crawling around outside the dumpsters, hissing and spitting. Tweek feels for them, but there’s little to be done. He taped a rehab flyer to the door.

More important, however, is keeping Richard away from the coffee makers. Tweek doesn’t trust him to do it right—do it Tweek’s way—and that could ruin everything. Tweek expects to be putting in a lot of hours henceforth to make sure as few people as possible gets served by Richard.

He presses the lid to the takeaway cup, firmly, double checking that the fit is snug. It wouldn’t do for it to fly off in a customer’s hand, causing a burn so bad that they sue Tweek Bros. for the medical expenses. It happened to McDonalds, Tweek is pretty sure, so who’s to say it couldn’t happen here? The legal process would surely put his family into bankruptcy. It would be awful, especially now when they’re on track to becoming a functioning business again. 

He calls, “A vanilla la— Wendy!” He hadn’t spotted her in the queue.

“Hi Tweek!” she says, smiling her big, white smile. “Wow, this turned out great, didn’t it? I would’ve come earlier but I was away, sorry!”

“Don’t worry, man! And it’s going alright, I guess.” 

“It looks so busy! I’m happy for you. This is surely the turning point.” She takes a dainty little sip from her drink, humming to show it’s good. “Ahh, this is good!” she says. “Do you remember when I came here before my date? It’s such a difference!”

“Tweek, you don’t have time to dawdle about.” Richard says, hand on his cocked hip. “You know our number one policy: to serve each customer the best cup coffee with the best customer service. Local businesses rely entirely on good customer relations, as you should know, which has the power to build relationships of beautiful symbiosis like the one between flower and pollinator.”

“Arrgh! I’m sorry, Dad!”

“It’s alright, son. Now make a mocha for this here lovely lady.”

The woman in question clacks her acrylic nails impatiently against the counter. Tweek scrambles to get another pump of espresso ready.

Wendy laughs awkwardly. “Sorry, I won’t hold you up,” she says. “Just— Congratulations again!”

“Wait!” he calls before she can leave. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

He spreads his arms wide—coffee sloshing dangerously in the cup—indicating to the room at large. “For helping me with all of this!” Before anything can spill and he gives Dad reason to scold him again he returns to the task, steaming a splash of milk. 

“I didn’t do anything.”

“But you did!” he says. He pulls the pitcher from the steamer, dries the nozzle off with a cloth. Pours milk in the espresso-cocoa mix. He continues, ”You really pushed me and, uhm, motivated me.”

“Oh, don’t say that. I’m only pushy because I knew you had it all in you already. You don’t believe in yourself enough, is the problem. But the only one who thinks you’re not capable of stuff is you yourself.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles. The mocha is ready, and he calls for the woman to collect it. 

“I do have to go now though,” Wendy says, waving goodbye. “Again, I’m so proud of you!”

She leaves, and the stream of customers slow. Things have calmed, finally, the lunch hour rush coming to an end. To actually experience a lunch rush is a new thing in itself, and it makes him feel like a real barista at a real café. He sets to clearing empty cups and saucers off the vacated tables. Richard rushes by in his coat, announcing he has to make a hasty leave, pats Tweek on the head and tells him not to ruin anything in his absence.

A few weeks ago what is happening today would have been unthinkable to Richard, because being wrong about something was unthinkable. Now he pretends not to remember any of the past months’ struggles. As if Tweek had made the whole thing up. When Tweek was younger, Richard had often managed to trick him like this. He can’t anymore, because Tweek has grown up, but Tweek still plays along. It’s easier.

He’s thinking of this, bitterly, wiping down an empty table when he spots the only four people he had hoped would _not_ show up today. 

Cartman, Kyle, Kenny and Stan, in that order, walk up to the counter. Mumbling a comforting mantra, he readies himself for whatever they might bring.

“What can I get you?” he asks. If he’s quick and to the point they might leave sooner.

“I like what you've done to the place,” Cartman notes, though Tweek’s changed very little about the store’s makeup, aside from switching the jazz for a regular radio channel. “Hot cocoa, thank you.”

“An americano, please,” Kyle says.

Stan eyes the menu. “I guess I'll try the latte. Two, actually. It's on me, Kenny.”

After collecting their payment he feels obliged to smalltalk as he prepares their orders. “Nggh _—_ How’d the Rockstar Games thing go?” is the first thing that comes to mind, besides _what are you doing here and what are you planning?_

“Oh, that?” Kyle says. “That was like, months ago!”

Cartman laughs. “Those pussies gave in immediately. We scared their ball sacks off. Saved the entire game! Didn’t you hear?”

Tweek shakes his head. “So what have you been doing the whole summer then?”

“Playing _GTA_ , mostly,” Stan says. “Modded, of course.”

Whatever Kenny says is muffled behind his parka and incomprehensible to Tweek. His eyes, however, gleam in the shadows of his hood, as though he’s itching to spill the most tickling of gossip.

Cartman seems to have caught his meaning. He scans the room, as if looking for potential eavesdroppers. The alarm bells in Tweek’s head are making a racket.

“Should we really tell him?” Cartman asks. “Well, I guess it won’t hurt. If you really have to know…”

“I don’t!”

Cartman pretends not to hear. “We’ve been blackmailing married dudes on Tinder who are looking for hookups,” he whispers.

“You can get a lot of money from desperate douche bags,” Kyle adds.

Cartman nods. “We put Kenny in crossdress and they all fucking fall for it.”

Kenny makes a motion of twirling an invisible lock of hair, giggling theatrically, like a caricature of a girl.

“It looks really convincing!” Kyle says when Tweek gives Kenny a skeptical look. “He even shaved his legs.”

Kenny mumbles, “It’s so smooth, feel it,” or at least that is what Tweek thinks he says. He’s making come-here motions at Tweek.

Sure enough, when Kenny pulls his pant leg up the skin is hairless and oddly shiny.

“Please don’t tell me any more,” Tweek begs. “What if someone is listening! I don’t want to be an accomplice!”

“I guess being a malnourished, stunted bum has its upsides, eh Kenny?” Cartman goes on, pretending again not to hear. 

He is eyeing Tweek up and down. Being checked out by Cartman is probably the most uncomfortable thing Tweek’s ever experienced. 

“You’re kinda petite,” he notes. “What do you say, do you want in on it? You’d be compensated, of course. A five percent cut. More than fair, since we already came up with the plan and will be handling the actual conversations. No offense, but I don’t trust you to know how to seduce a man, gay or not. Craig’s a leashed bitch and doesn’t count.”

“Cartman, however, is an expert on seducing men,” Kyle says, smirking. 

“Ey! I’m just skilled in deception. What the hell are you implying, _Kyle_?”

“ _Auuuugh!_ ” Tweek cries. “I don’t want to be part of your scheme! Please leave before I kick you out!”

He fights the urge to slam their finished drinks on the counter. They all grumble, but thankfully, they go. Only Stan, who's been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole conversation—or whatever the hell that was—lingers.

“Hey, um,” he begins.

Anxious to be rid of them all Tweek snaps, “What?”

“You and Wendy are friends now, right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Stan flounders, eyes not settling anywhere. “I just… Is she happy?”

“Um. I think so?” he says. “Yeah, she seems happy.”

“Okay,” Stan nods. “I just wanted to know. Tell her I’m happy for her—if she ever asks. Don’t tell her otherwise! Yeah.” He stuffs his hands deeply in his pockets, radiating discomfort. “Thank you. Uh… yeah. See you.”

He too leaves. Tweek breathes out, exhaling tension like smoke from a cigarette.

As the door closes behind Stan it opens again for Craig, who’s arriving straight from work. He stops in the doorway, glaring after the Stan until he’s presumably disappeared from view, around the corner.

“Did I just see the asshole-patrol walk by? How’d that go?” he asks.

“Ugh… Don’t even ask,” Tweek groans. “They tried to pull me into another one of their plots!”

Craig glances around. “It seems a lot calmer than this morning,” he comments. “I bet you’re tired.”

“Sorta… but it was nice to have a full house for once. When I’m just standing around waiting for people to come by it’s so _boring_.”

“I bet. But I don’t think there will be much more of that now. Your hard work paid off.”

“What hard work? I barely did anything,” Tweek says. Craig looks at him, pulling a disapproving face. “Look— My efforts at first didn’t amount to anything. I mean, the photograph, that had nothing to do with _me_. That was just dumb luck.”

Craig is shaking his head. “You did good things so a good thing happened to you. Isn’t that what karma is? And anyway, you still did all of this, didn’t you?” He motions around them, to the store at large. “Arranging this thing, coming up with the drinks, serving all these assholes, etcetera. You saved your family big time.”

“We don’t know that yet! And you all helped a lot. You and Wendy and the others…”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I’m not! I’ve made some awesome coffee today! But I know that without you all… nothing!” Craig wants to butt in again, his mouth making small motions like he’s trying to speak. Before he can interrupt Tweek hurries on, explaining, “No, I mean it. I’m so… It’s just how it is. But you all bring out the best in me. Especially _you_.”

Craig sighs. “You bring out the best in me too, okay?” he says. “It’s not a one sided thing.”

It’s such a sincere statement, and Tweek doesn’t know how to respond. How can he ever show Craig just how much he matters? How important he is?

He jokes, instead. “Hah, I know. Without me you’d probably be in detention all the time!”

“Yeah, probably,” Craig chuckles. “I’d be such a troublemaker if I didn’t have to look after you instead. Really, you’ve saved _me_.”

“Hey! I don’t need any looking after!” He swats at Craig across the countertop.

“I’m kidding,” Craig says. He catches Tweek’s hand, intertwining their fingers. “I would rather spend time with you than Mr Mackey though.”

Tweek laughs. “I would sure hope so!”

## \--

There is something about the late summer that awakens a sense of desperation within Tweek.

In the pasture by the road past Tweak Bros. the cows stand knee deep in grasses and legumes, swishing their tails at bothersome flies. When Tweek first came to loiter by their enclosure they would raise their heads and observe him with their humongous eyes, clovers hanging out the corners of their mouths, but by now they’ve long since lost interest. Maybe they too can sense the approach of fall and are making the most of it, eating as much of the wild grass they can stomach, before they have to move back inside the barn where all they will be getting is dried hay.

As he leans against a fence post, watching the picturesque scene, Tweek recalls a one of his favorite poems:

> _At this lovely spot,_
> 
> _Where summer grasses run wild,_
> 
> _Hindered by nothing,_
> 
> _I shall build a small cottage,_
> 
> _And seek a while my own peace._

The words normally evoke calmness. In his head a he has constructed a hutch in a summer field, a safe space within his mind to which he can retreat when needed. 

When he tries to visit it now he can’t find it.

There is hardly any peace when he can’t help but to feel anxious about everything that could go wrong soon. Will things be the same in a month? Two? A year? Senior year, graduation, life beyond school and his parents and Craig, everything is still an uncertainty. He wishes he could capture these tail-end weeks of summer in the cup of his hands and stay here forever.

When he rings the Tuckers’ doorbell some thirty minutes later, he is clutching handfuls of grass.

“Oh Jesus,” Craig says when he opens the door. “Hang on, Mom will murder me if you drop that all over the floor.”

He returns with a bowl. Tweek releases the strands, semi-crushed by his vice grip, into it. His palms are juicy and stained green.

“Now what’s all that for?” Craig asks.

“Ngh— The guinea pigs.”

“Alright,” he says, slowly. “Is something wrong?”

Tweek doesn’t know how to explain what he’s feeling so he shakes his head, trying and probably failing to be convincing about it.

Craig doesn’t push it. “How was it at the store today?” he asks instead.

Tweek toes his shoes off in the hallway. “Good,” he says. “Decent amount of people. For a Sunday, you know.” He peers into the kitchen. “Hi Thomas, Laura. Hi Tricia.”

The room smells wonderful, like caramelized onions and bread dough. Steam is rising from a stockpot on the stove, curling and dancing as Laura stirs it. At the table Thomas is reading from his Ipad. He gives Tweek a nod in greeting. Tricia is grating carrots into a salad at the center of the table. She grins wide at Tweek, showing the purple elastics of her braces.

“Hi!” she calls. “Do you want a carrot?”

Laura turns from the stove. “Hello Tweek! I’m making onion soup. You like that, right?”

“No thanks, Tricia. And that sounds great, thank you.”

“I’ll call you boys down in thirty minutes or so.”

They head upstairs. The moment they open the door to Craig’s bedroom the three guinea pigs shriek their high-pitched greetings.

“Will you please shut up?” Craig mutters. “Fine, then. You guys are lucky we actually brought you something.”

Tweek feeds them strands of grass one at a time. It’s like sticking papers in a shredder— _squish, squish, squish_ , and it’s all gone. 

“So,” Craig asks, “what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know, there’s not much time before dinner.”

“Enough time to make out?”

Tweek snorts. “No way, your parents would be able to tell. Afterwards, though…”

“Fine. Pick a movie we can put on for noise.”

Craig has a small collection of DVDs. The _Red Racer_ box set. Two of the _Harry Potter_ movies, but not the first two, for some reason. An assortment of animated Disney classics. Anything he bought as a kid, basically, because since then they’ve been streaming—legally or illegally, though you won’t catch Tweek doing the second—all their movies.

“Let’s watch _The Jungle Book_ ,” he suggests.

“Cool.” Craig sits at his desk, spinning the chair back and forth with his legs. “I hung out with Clyde today. He’s starting football practice next week.”

“Oh, already?”

“Yeah. And he said he wanted to try the Honda. I said no way.”

“He could ride on the back?”

“Nah, I don’t want to haul his heavy ass. Don’t want his arms around me either, that’s just a little bit too much Clyde for me.”

“You’re so mean. Maybe Clyde is the perfect passenger you always wanted.”

Craig snorts. “I’m pretty happy with you,” he says. He pauses his swiveling. “Do you think you’d like going on a longer trip? Like outside of South Park.”

Tweek chews at his lip. “I don’t know,” he says, honestly. Driving on the highways or up in the mountains both seem equally unappealing. “Clyde might be up for it, though.”

“Lay off about Clyde. I’m just asking, like you said I should.”

Tweek knows Craig’s been going on faraway drives on his own. He says it’s ‘fun, but in a way that suggests he’s downplaying it to keep his regular cool. What is it he’s experiencing out there, Tweek wonders? Something that makes him glow, as if filled with life, something which seems to ease his frustrations.

Maybe, if Tweek follows him, all the questions he has will be answered. Maybe then he would understand the appeal. 

“Maybe?” he says, hesitantly.

“I’m not gonna be mad if you don’t want to, really.”

“I said maybe, not no!” he snaps.

“Okay.”

From downstairs, Laura calls on them.

At dinner Tweek stuffs himself on warm soup and sourdough. He feels bloated heading back to Craig’s room, but in a wholly sated way. Laura is a wonderful cook. To Tweek she is like a second mom. She feeds him, inquires about his grades, and fusses over his well-being. Sometimes the Tuckers’ house feels like home than his parents’ house does.

“Go put the movie in,” Craig says when they’re back in the room. 

Tweek does. They shuffle around with the laptop on the bed through the opening credits, trying to find a comfortable position. When Bagheera begins his and Mowgli’s journey through the jungle back to man’s village, Craig slings an arm around Tweek’s shoulders, and they’ve settled in side by side.

Tweek is still feeling the sick from dinner, too full to do any of the promised kissing yet. Craig doesn’t initiate. So close Tweek can tell that he is newly washed, smelling like shampoo and deodorant, scents usually covered by garage stink. Something like a sedative cloud lay around Tweek, making him calm and sleepy. 

His eyes are drooping. Throughout the elephant march he can’t stop himself from yawning.

“You were right,” he says.

“Obviously,” Craig says. “About what, though?”

Tweek snorts. “About being tired because of the shop. I think I’ve been sleeping better recently.”

“You? Sleeping? It’s a miracle.”

“I think it’s mostly in your room… There’s like, this calm energy?”

“Maybe if you cleaned your room sometimes you’d get some feng shui too. I don’t mind if you sleep here though.”

“Feng shui isn’t about cleaning. Anyway, my parents probably would mind. Also, really? Don’t you want some time for yourself?”

Craig mulls over his answer. “Sometimes?” he says. “But like, not as much as you probably think I do.”

Something small and hopeful is jumping up and down in Tweek’s stomach. “I don’t want to be clingy…”

“Honey, you’ve always been clingy.” He pulls Tweek closer by the arm, a half-hug. “If I hated it I would have broken up long ago.”

They quiet again, listening to the music of the movie. King Louie swaggers around on the laptop screen. Tweek tries to read between the lines of what Craig said, but how can he be sure?

“So you’d really want to be with me all the time?”

“Yeah,” Craig says, not looking away from the swing-dancing monkeys. Like it’s no big deal.

“Same!” Tweek says with too much urgency. “I mean, I want to be with you all the time too!” Craig turns to look at him. “It’s funny… no, not funny. Ugh.”

“What is it?” Craig urges.

Tweek looks at the screen, not really seeing what is happening. The flashing images ease his tongue—anything except looking directly at Craig helps, really. 

“Well—uh. Agh!” He shakes his head, trying to focus his thoughts. He tries again, ”For a while, I didn’t know if I wanted… that. I guess I was thinking, like, are we just together because of habit? Because I’m scared of change?” He’s echoing Wendy from a few months ago. “I don’t think that anymore though! And I didn’t want to tell you but, man, I know I’ve been acting weird. And you deserve to know why. So, I’m sorry…”

Craig sighs. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s something I’ve wondered about too.”

The happy little creature in his belly promptly sits down again. “You have? When?”

“Some time last year.”

Hearing so hurts. It’s unfair of him, of course, to be upset about it. “You never told me!”

“I figured it out on my own pretty soon,” Craig says. “I knew you’d take it badly, and I didn’t want to fuck things up if it turned out to be nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” Tweek says. “I wish I wasn’t… I wish I was someone you could’ve told? And I wish I didn’t impact us with my stuff when you spared us yours.”

“It’s alright. We’re fine, aren’t we? Let’s not worry about it.”

“Okay,” he agrees, hesitant. 

Before Tweek can dodge out of the way he’s pulled up against Craig’s chest, and Craig’s blowing a raspberry against his neck.

He squeals in laughter. “What’s this now! Stop!”

“Hm… No.”

Craig does it again, leaving a wet smear on Tweek’s skin. He tries to wrestle himself away but can’t, Craig’s hold too strong. So he tries to escape by huddling closer, burrowing under Craig’s chin, where he feels the jut of his Adam’s apple against his cheek. Their bodies are so warm together, and there’s the warmth of the bed too, the laptop like a heating pad. Above them, on the ceiling over the bed, is the North Star glue-glob to which Tweek’s inner compass will always point.

For a few minutes they sit like that, quietly, cuddled closer than before. _The Jungle Book_ is a series of flickering images Tweek sees but doesn’t see, too many thoughts in his head. Contentment. Happiness? Uncertainty, and troubled anxiety. He gnaws on his lips. In his mind he sees a blur coming down the highway, speeding by with such force that the wind of it threatens to topple him. It disappears into the horizon. Tweek’s alone.

“I wanna do it,” he says.

Craig looks over. “Huh? Do what?”

“The road trip or whatever. Let’s do it. Tomorrow? Before I lose my nerve.”

“Oh.” Craig seems taken aback. “Okay, cool. But not tomorrow. We both have work, remember?”

Tweek knew that. He feels flustered, caught of guard by his own blind resoluteness. “Well… Okay. But another time?”

“Sure, another time,” Craig says. He seems to sense Tweek’s courage slipping away. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fun. And if it’s not fun, you never have to come again.”

“Right,” Tweek nods.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

Craig smiles, wide and toothy and rare. “Good.” He nudges Tweek with his arm. “Proud of you. So brave.”

Tweek tries to punch him, but Craig catches his arm, holding him still. Kisses him, long and drawn out, more feelings behind it than has ever shown on his face, through his words. Gratefulness for this favor Tweek is doing him, maybe. Or a declaration of something more? Tweek doesn’t know. 

The movie plays on in the background.

## \--

They’re on the motorcycle heading along US 285 towards Denver. When they left South Park in the morning hours the grass was still dewy and the air cold, crisp. Craig, who typically woke around noon on a weekend, had been eager to leave since daybreak. With great reluctance and a little bit of bribery—we’ll get you more coffee there, come on, Craig said—Tweek had consented to climb into his place on the pillion seat. He holds on to Craig by his midsection. 

Craig is clad in full motorcycle gear: all-leather jacket, boots and gloves. It makes him look stupidly alluring. Tweek could use this sort of dress too, but that’s jumping the gun. This is his first longer expedition, and it’s very likely it will also be his last. 

They cruised the neighborhood slowly and steadily until they hit the highway. Now they drive in high gear. Tweek tries to focus on keeping balanced and leaning with Craig in the curves, like they’ve practiced. Every turn feels like a swoop in his stomach, like riding a roller coaster.

At first the constant rumble and roar of the machinery is painful in Tweek’s ears, but eventually the noise phases out into background static, a buzz through which his thoughts are filtered, simplified. 

It is a great difference riding on the long, open roads compared to the streets inside South Park. The sense speed is nearly incomprehensible. The loudest of Tweek’s thoughts are left behind in the dust of the road, unable to keep up. Now he is simply experiencing. Experiencing the highway nestled within grasslands green and yellow, bookended by mountains dotted by firs and spruce and pines, pines, pines. The sky is a flat, azure plain. Rail guards seem a blur in the periphery of his vision. Traffic is relatively sparse, the occasional speedy car passing their cycle with a _whoosh_ of wind and sound, and slow moving trucks they overtake. 

It should be scary. A big truck could pancake them. Craig’s unafraid, though. Tweek’s not sure if he’s scared or not himself.

They emerge from the mountains much sooner than Tweek would've thought, as if time and space slipped by unnoticed. Craig trails behind an RV as they turn towards Lakewood. The outskirts of the municipality is populated by a mishmash of residential houses, small trees and large shrubs. As they ride along the suburbs Tweek begins to feel the stiffness in his body.

“Are you still there?” Craig hollers.

“Of course!” Tweek cries back, trying to make himself heard over the speed and the wind. 

They carry on eastwards and into the city. Here the traffic is denser and Craig weaves between cars best he can. The anxiety Tweek had hoped to leave behind in the valley surfaces and with every change of lane his stomach clenches in preparation for a disaster.

But nothing happens. At last, having arrived at the edges of the Denver area, they come to a slow by a smallish park with bench tables and a scattered handful of food trucks. Craig parks haphazardly on the pavement by an empty table, turns the engine off and pushes the kickstand down with a quick foot. Tweek dismounts, quaking all over, like an Aspen tree. It feels good to stand up. There’s a prickling feeling, crawling little ants, running up and down his legs. Next to him Craig stretches, toes to fingertips, the full and impressive length of him. When he pulls his helmet off his hair is flattened, and he ruffles it to shapely disorder with a hand.

Tweek sits down on the bench. His tics are acting up, badly, but he manages to pull his helmet off and set it to his side without dropping it.

“My hands are so cold,” he says. He’d begun noticing how stiff they were a few minutes into Lakewood.

“You need some real gloves, honey,” Craig says. Indeed, Tweek’s gloves are thin-knitted, nothing like the wind resistant leather of Craig’s biking gloves. “Maybe we can find a gear shop here. Do you want to borrow mine?”

“No. You can hold my hands though.”

Craig does. They sit together and he cradles Tweek’s fingers in between his, rubs them and breathes hot air on them. 

“Better?”

“Yeah.”

Tweek orders them lunch: a plate of falafel from a food truck looking the worse for wear. Tweek reaches for Craig’s hands again as they sit watching their food be prepared. It sizzles and bubbles and smells amazing.

“Did you see the mountains?” Tweek asks.

“The Mountains? Must’ve missed them,” Craig dryly answers.

“Shut up, smartass!” Tweek tugs once, sharply, their linked hands. Craig tugs back, gentler. “Argh! I meant, did you _see_ the mountains? They were so… so there! Like they were somehow closer, and more beautiful and— I don’t know man!”

“I understand… I think. You’re finally realizing how much better it is to travel by cycle than by car,” Craig says, smug.

“It’s still a death-trap! But… when you forget about that it’s like— Like a more pure experience. Like maybe it’s worth it?”

“So you’ll come on more road trips with me then?”

“I guess. Only if you buy me gloves though!”

They’re called on to collect their food. Together they pick from the Styrofoam plate with plastic forks and bare fingers. The falafel steams when split, and Tweek burns the roof of his mouth. In between bites they talk about the sights they saw on the highway: the battered Ford driving on a flat tire, a black Camaro 2SS, a pony’s muzzle poking out the back of a horse trailer. They both saw a large, soaring bird at an overpass but can’t agree on whether it was an falcon or a hawk.

Craig waves a vibrant, purple strip of pickled turnip in Tweek’s face. “Do you want these?” 

“Yeah.” Tweek opens his mouth, slightly, face hot.

The vegetable crunches softly under Tweek’s teeth as he eats it, one bite at a time. His tongue brushes against fry-greased fingertips and he lingers, tasting on Craig’s skin salt and vague spices and garlic sauce. They’re being incredibly inappropriate, but Tweek feels daring, empowered.

Craig kisses him softly, guiding him into place with a oily fingers on Tweek’s chin. The kiss is chaste but meaningful. _Maybe later_ , it promises.

They wipe the last of the stickiness off on napkins and throw their garbage in an overfull can. It’s noon by then and they cruise slowly though the city, sightseeing. A brawl between an obese mother of two and a convenience store worker catches Tweek’s eyes. He taps Craig’s side, once, and points. The mother swings her purse like a flail. Under his arms Tweek feels Craig’s stomach move in a chuckle or a laugh.

They make a stop at a parts and gear shop to buy Tweek a pair of gloves. The dude behind the counter talks to Craig about the Honda, and soon their words recede into the background until they’ve merged with the radio show playing overhead. Tweek thinks back to the ride, trying to examine the calmness he felt. It’s hard to rationalize.

When they step outside it’s past noon. It’s warmed considerably, so the new gloves stay in Tweek’s pocket.

“C’mon, I promised you coffee,” Craig says.

It’s the same café they visited back during summer vacation, where they sat outdoors with the blankets. This time they order their drinks to go. After Tweek has used the bathroom to pee Craig’s waiting for him by the door, a takeaway cup in each hand. Tweek follows him to a bench by a stunted, red-leaved tree. They have a good view of a pedestrian crossing where Saturday shoppers converge in masses. 

Tweek sips his coffee. He people-watches, absentminded. The shapes and colors seem to conglomerate with the murmur of the crowd, becoming a singular impression.

“What are you thinking about?” Craig asks.

“Hmm… I don’t know!” he says. “Nothing, really. I just feel good. It’s a boring answer, I know, sorry.”

“I’m not used to you having nothing to say is all. Usually you won’t hesitate to babble my ear off.”

“Mean! So what are _you_ thinking about, then?”

“The future,” he says. When Tweek looks at him questioningly he elaborates. “I want a house with a big garden, so we can build a huge pen for the guinea pigs. And then we will raise guinea pig babies.” 

“Babies! Jesus, man, that’s way too much—”

“Pressure, I know, I know. But you might change your mind.” 

Houses and babies? It hits Tweek that Craig is telling him they have a planned future together in his mind. With babies. Guinea pig babies, granted, but still _babies_. That’s basically a proposal, right?

“It doesn’t really matter,” Craig continues. “The most important thing is that we’re together, you and I.”

Tweek blinks, trying to soothe the sudden sting in his eyes. Don’t cry.

“What happened to you, man? You’re all sorts of gooey today,” he asks.

“I’m just glad you decided to come, alright? Everything’s more fun with you.” Craig bumps him in the side. “So, did I inspire some thoughts in you?”

“Yeah…” He searches for the words. “I’m thinking I want that future too.”

Craig doesn’t say anything else, but smiles back, and it’s enough for Tweek.

It’s early enough in the year that the evening comes without darkness. It’s getting chillier though, and Tweek pulls his gloves on as they approach the motorcycle. The shell seems dusty, matted from the highways and the city grime. He’s sure it will keep Craig busy once they’re home.

Craig checks the oil. All good, it seems, because he throws a leg over the cycle. With a toss of his head he beckons Tweek who comes, happily, to retake the rear seat. The machine roars to life as Craig squeezes the clutch and turns the throttle. Tweek feels the motions as if he’s the one doing them. Like the boundaries between him, Craig and the machine are blurring, blending them into a singular, superior organism as they take off down the road.

The feeling lingers all the way back onto the highway. Traffic is worse at this hour, cars returning from weekend outings clogging up the road. Craig slaloms them like a gymkhana champion, or so it feels, tight and butter-smooth. Tweek lets himself enjoy the feeling of it, adrenaline keeping the fear at bay for the moment. If Dr Norris could see him now! He’d never believe his eyes.

When they’re nearing the valley again the road clears. They speed up, going faster, but not too fast. Overhead a murmuration of starlings move as a rippling wave, folding in over itself in aimless patterns. Tweek watches, mesmerized. Then they’re gone, and the next thing catches his attention, and then the next. He is both present and distant, an unfamiliar state of being that he welcomes, finally, _this is it_. This is feeling and thinking without being overpowered by it. If they crash, there is no helping it, and at least they got to experience this euphoria, together.

He hugs Craig tighter. There is peace in riding a motorcycle—Tweek understands this now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garth Stein, _The Art of Racing in the Rain_ (2008)  
> The Heart Sutra, Translation by Kwan Um School of Zen  
> Ishikawa Jun, “Moon Gems” (1946). Translation by William J. Tyler, from _The Shōwa Anthology_ (1985)  
> Robert M. Pirsig, _Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance_ (1974)  
> Ryōkan Taigu, Poem #104. Translation by Nobuyuki Yuasa, from _The Zen Poems of Ryōkan_ (1981)
> 
> The title of the story is derived from the unwritten but named poem in "Moon Gems": "Love Song to a Bicycle".
> 
> Thank you for reading! ♥


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